Love Bites
by ink and ashes
Summary: A story about learning how to live again. Departure tag, season three rewrite.
1. ONE

**SPECIAL THANKS**: To Whimsy, who bore through three rewrites and all of my bitching.

**LOVE BITES **

(but so do I)

It takes some time to process which, in hindsight, is appalling. I let myself fall into familiar trappings in spite of the fact that I've always taken pride in my ability to reach a quick, concise analysis in any given situation, even under extreme duress. That is my forte, my shining commendation, and it is disgraceful that I've let myself play along with the idea that everything can go back to the way it was before.

I suppose that everyone has their moments. I am no exception.

The spell ends several days after Tess Harding's departure, with baby Max in her belly. I've been running on a back-up generator, unable to empathize, unable to sympathize, unable to communicate anything other than, "What can I get you?" and, "Would you like to try the house Special?"

I let Max kiss me and tell me how much he loves me, because it's what he's done before. I let him think that pretty flowers and too much attention will keep the ghosts at bay, because it's what he's done before. I let him stroke my hair, caress my cheek, flutter his big puppy-dog eyes at me, because it's what he's done before. I let him lie to me, let him believe that my silence isn't important, let him think that nothing is wrong, because it's _what he's done before_.

Routines and constant variables. I need these to survive.

It's a Tuesday and it's an hour before the dinner rush. The maelstrom of huffy patrons who cannot be bothered to wait for their food are usurped only by the grabby men that eye my uniform with thinly veiled lust. My tips are always substantial during this trying time, but for now, I enjoy the calm of the empty café. I let my mind drift to the homework I have yet to touch.

A loud _ding _drags me out of my stupor. I jump and the salt shaker slips from my hand, spilling its innards across the Formica. I withhold a growl of annoyance. Michael is being obnoxious with that bell in the kitchen window again, telling me to get my ass in gear, which is ridiculous; the only occupied booth houses our friends, and I'm sure they will not mind waiting a few more minutes. I don't think it's necessary to scare the living daylights out of me, but I hear him laugh at my expense and I do not have the heart to scold him.

Laughter is rare these days.

I hear the others chuckling and I glance at them, surprised. Maria says something derogatory about her boyfriend for my sake with a smile on her face. She's supposed to be helping me prepare for the stampede on the horizon, but she seems relaxed just lounging in the booth next to Kyle, so I don't mind picking up the slack. That's what friends are for.

Max catches my eye. Instead of the butterflies I expect, a shudder shoots down my spine.

It's instant. It's ferocious. It's the first real emotion I've felt in a lifetime. It's new and wonderful, so much more tangible than the salt and pepper shakers I'm refilling. As I retrieve the fallen jug, there's a part of me that latches onto the inexplicable fury and places it in a jar of formaldehyde to preserve it, study it, understand it.

I concentrate on the glass containers in my hand, uncomfortably aware of his avid perusal. The tiny granules become my single purpose in life, but their small stature cannot handle the weight of my wrath and the shakers explode in my grasp, slicing my palm in retribution. The merry mood fades. Without sparing any of them another look, I wipe the blood, the glass, and the spilled salt into a gray tub with a rag and disappear into the kitchen, hiding from their scrutiny. I discard the tub with the rest of the trash, and barrel into the bathroom, fumbling for the first aid kit with one hand.

Pain dulls the hatred that's taken over me and I wince at my own folly. I should not have touched salt with an open wound.

"Parker?"

I jump, startled again. Michael really has to stop doing that; he and his precious bell have caused me enough trouble. "Hey," I manage unevenly. "Can you—?"

True to form, Hurricane Deluca bursts into the back of the restaurant before I have the chance to finish.

"_Liz!_" she calls, zeroing in on Michael and I. She jogs over, worried.

I head her off before she begins to flutter and fret about like a mother hen. I adore my butterfly, but she can be exasperating when I need a level head. "Watch the front for a few minutes?" I ask, mindful of the blood dripping down my arm.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

I nod. "Yeah, just cover for me."

"What was all that ab—?"

"Boss lady said scram," Michael cuts in. He is staring at my hand as if it is an enemy. "I'll take care of this."

"No need to be so _rude_," Maria says, her tone stuck between hurt and anger. Thankfully, she walks back towards the kitchen doors and I am relieved that she is doing as I asked. The last thing I need is for my father to see his café completely unmanned.

With Maria taken care of, Michael takes the white box from my good hand and motions toward the toilet with his chin. "Sit," he tells me, and while the caveman approach is irksome, I do as he says. He grabs the tweezers from the kit and moves closer to me, his great height casting a shadow over my sedentary form. I brace myself to be manhandled, as I've never seen Michael as soft or his calloused fingers gentle, but I am pleasantly surprised when his touch is light, almost delicate. He carefully plucks the jagged shards from my skin and though I know he is not intentionally hurting me, I have to bite back more than a few insults every time another piece of glass is yanked free.

After a minute that feels like an eternity, Michael guides my hand to the faucet. Warm water washes the blood away and the ring slips from my forefinger. I make no move to grab it, enraptured by the blooms of muted red that swirl around the drain. They look like rose petals.

"Wanna talk about it?"

I am not prepared for that question, least of all from him. "No," I answer.

He says nothing. Once my wounds are cleaned to his satisfaction, he lays one of his monstrous paws over my palm, sandwiching my hand between the both of his. A moment of concentration is all he needs before a familiar glow encompasses his large fingers and the soothing warmth is enough to make me sigh.

"Thank you," I say when he is finished. He's looking at me strangely and I wonder if he took a flash from me. Asking him would be akin to pulling teeth, so I do not bother. "I didn't know you could heal, too."

"We all can," he admits. "Max is just better at it."

I tense at the mention of Maxwell Evans. I do not want to think about him or anything to do with him, but I am helpless to stop the fury from burning anew. _Betrayer, _my heart screams and my relentless thoughts turn to the boy that once called me his soul mate.

His smile once had the ability to disarm me, once turned my world on its axis; now, it grates like barbed wire against my eyes. All I see in that smile are the lips that have kissed another. His hands have touched another. His honeyed words have been murmured to another in the heat of passion, moaned into curly blonde tresses, whispered against pale skin. His arms, his body have been wrapped around another, and an unborn child is out there somewhere, growing in a murderess' uterus.

Max and his hormones. Max and his inability to use a contraceptive. Max and his sweet lies.

Max and his stupid, _stupid_ mistakes.

"He's such an idiot," I mumble.

Michael raises an eyebrow at my outburst. I'd forgotten where I was, with _whom_ I was. My cheeks burn as he watches me and there is humor in his eyes. "You all right there, boss lady?"

The moniker amuses me. "Yeah. Just talking to myself."

He steps out of the bathroom and I follow, wiping my hands. He tosses me my ring. "Just keep a lid on it. Don't wanna scare away the customers." He walks back towards the kitchen and I head for the storage room to replace the shaker I destroyed.

The night is long and arduous, smoldering with the only emotion I can feel and cannot contain. When the dinner rush hits, I smile at every customer and take their orders kindly, but my teeth grind together every time I pass Max's seat. I can't stand the sight of him and by the end of the night, my jaw is locked. I manage to work it loose after I slam the door in Max's befuddled face and while the action makes me feel better, I am far from vindicated. Relief sweeps in to calm my nerves once the restaurant is no longer open for business; closing is a quiet affair shared between Michael and I once I tell Agnes to go home.

I am collecting the plates, cups, and silverware while Michael works on scraping the grill. Michael and I rarely trade words and tonight, I am thankful for it. My mind continuously wanders and I'm pretty sure I'm not working as fast as I usually do. As I wipe down the Formica, memory punches me in the stomach.

_You're beautiful. Perfect_.

I still remember Max's words. I still remember how quickly his attention had been diverted when Tess Harding had waltzed into town. I still remember how easily he'd given into her short curls and her big blue eyes. I still remember how he'd told me he loved me shortly after kissing her.

I've never been particularly vain, but I've never felt quite so ugly before. I'd like to think I'm rather pragmatic; I know I'm not Isabel Evans, or Tess Harding, or Maria DeLuca. My skin is too tan, my hair and eyes too dark, my body too slight to be considered beautiful by normal standards and it's never affected me before. I'm more than aware that aesthetics are a grab bag that some people happen to have more fortune with than others. Even before the alien abyss, I've been content as the rationality behind Maria's less than logical frame of mind, and I've never desired her spotlight. Any scientist knows that it's futile to look for perfection because it does not exist.

But logic does not control my emotions and I feel disgusting. I feel used and discarded, like yesterday's trash. I feel like the toy a little girl throws away in favor of a newer, prettier, _better_ model.

_I love you._

Max's words haunt me. A part of me crumbles because now I know that, at some point, those words have become a crutch. Another lie he tells me. I doubt he even realizes it, but I know.

Love doesn't feel like this.

Love doesn't hurt like this.

Distracted, I do not realize how late it's gotten until Michael calls out a bland "Night, Parker," on his way out. I hurry to lock up after him, waving a little as he departs. I ignore the stab of envy as I watch him hop onto his motorcycle, stuffing his sweaty bandana into his back pocket.

Maria has no idea how lucky she is.

Had Michael not decided to stay for her, we would have never gotten to Max and Isabel in time, and while that is, ultimately, the most important aspect, the romantic in me disagrees.

Michael had stayed _for her_. He'd been willing to watch the only family he'd ever known leave him, willing to disregard the destiny he'd held so dear, willing to forsake the people he'd been subconsciously yearning for his entire life, _for her_. He worked two jobs to support himself and pay for whatever frivolities Maria desired, somehow found time between those two jobs _and _school to spend time with her, and he'd pushed aside his disbelief to help Maria and I search for Alex's murderer.

I sigh, the hatred from before melting into unmitigated sadness.

Maria is many things, but subtle she is not; she made no secret that she wished her relationship had the 'tragic, star-crossed lovers' aspect she believed Max and I had. She doesn't realize what she has; Max knew how to wax poetry, but Michael's devotion was absolute. Max could give paperback novels a run for their money, but Michael was honest and true. Maria liked to call Max, 'Romeo', but Romeo was a young, fickle-hearted fool that managed to screw up everything in his rashness, and I refuse to play his Juliet. I'd rather be Benvolio than to ever be Max's Juliet, again.

Closing is a lonely affair.

x

x

Days go by in a blur of automatic responses and endless mourning. Brief flares of anger break up the monotony, but they fade all too easily into despair.

I alternate between crying and screaming into my pillow when I am at home. My schoolwork suffers because I am determined to avoid Max like the plague, and my work hours have been reduced because I am determined to avoid him there, too. When he passes me notes in class, I crumple them up and toss them in the trash bin. When he tries to corner me at my locker, I try to hit him with the metal door until he takes the hint, which he never does.

I am _not_ his Juliet.

x

x

There is a single page left in my journal, empty and unassuming. I want to fill it up. I want to close this book, this chapter of my life, but all that comes to me are wordless cries that all sound suspiciously like _Alex_. I could fill up a library with words, each one lamenting my lost friend and everything we've done wrong and how we could have prevented it. I don't want to end this journal with a page full of tears, but I don't have it in me to write anymore.

I can't finish it, yet.

x

x

I receive a shock while I am working one day, shortly after Michael clocks out.

He is stripped down to his undershirt, his uniform stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. He sits next to Maria, with Max and Isabel across from them, and they are laughing freely. Even Max, who's had all the allure of a kicked puppy recently, is grinning from ear to ear, his humor genuine. When Kyle walks in, he and Michael high-five each other before Kyle sits at the counter in front of me.

"Hey, Liz," he greets warmly, but I am not paying attention.

How can they be so carefree, so _happy_? How can they sit there and trade anecdotes? Do they not remember Alex and grieve, as I do? How can they laugh and keep on living when my world has been torn asunder and nothing will ever be right again?

"Liz?" is Kyle's worried inquiry.

I feel betrayed.

"Order up!" calls José from the kitchen window and I stiffly move to grab the freshly fried tray of onion rings.

They shouldn't be allowed to move on when I'm still stuck. They shouldn't have the luxury of happiness if I'm still so full of anger and hatred and sadness. Maria shouldn't have her very own Rhett Butler, Isabel shouldn't find comfort in her friends, Michael shouldn't be opening up and being the sweetheart he'd kept buried behind terse words and scowls; Max shouldn't be basking in camaraderie with the very people he screwed over when he screwed his little alien hell-bitch.

My happiness has come and gone. They should not have found it so easily, not in the aftershock of such a tragedy.

But they should, and I hate what I've become.

x

x

Everything sucks without Alex.

Everything sucks, period.

x

x

I have to finish this damned thing, but I still don't know what to write. I _have _to, because it hurts so much and I don't know if I can keep floating along on waves of unmitigated agony forever. It's tearing me apart, piece by bitter piece, and I can't imagine ever smiling again. I've tried rereading a few earlier entries, but my stomach churns whenever I do; my memoirs are full of alien conspiracies and a whirlwind romance gone horribly awry. I have none of those anymore, except for the aliens, and there's so much youth in these pages that it makes me feel ancient.

Youth? Christ.

I'm only seventeen. _Seventeen_, and I feel like the sun will never shine again, like life isn't worth living anymore, like aged paper crinkling its last. I feel so old and bitter and tired.

I hate it.

I hate this.

I hate everything.

x

x

I am sitting on my balcony at the behest of my worried mother, clutching my journal as I rock back and forth. The crisp night air isn't helping me. I must have looked pretty pathetic this morning because my father took me off of the schedule without a word. I can't seem to stop crying. I am grateful for the reprieve, but I wonder if I should have just completed my shift.

This is killing me.

"Don't, Max," I hear below me and I freeze. What is Michael doing beneath my safe haven?

"But… haven't you seen her, lately?" asks Max in that sad voice of his. "I'm worried about her."

I withhold another sob. _Don't worry about me_, I beg silently. _Just go away._

"She needs space," I hear Isabel say.

"I've never seen her so… _closed off_ before," says Max.

Of course he's never seen me like this before. Alex has never been murdered before. Max has never let the murderer free with his unborn child, before. Life has never felt like such a punishment before.

_Go away, _I beg. I hate him so much.

"Just give her some time," Michael says.

"It's been a month. I know she's hurting, but why won't she talk to us?" _To me_, is what I hear and I'm through with eavesdropping.

"_Go away!_" I cry, shrill and loud. I dive back into the suffocating madness of my room.

I lock my window, just in case.

x

x

We're reading _The Crucible_ in English class. I've already read it, but Mister Harrison likes to assign us certain characters so that we read it in play form. Thankfully, I am not given a part to read out loud this period, but it's only a matter of time before he calls my name.

For the time being, I am safe to completely ignore everything around me.

The only one of the group who shares this class with me is Michael. Before I knew him, I found it kind of odd that the loner would have Advanced English, but now that I know better, I suppose it suits him. I've seen that book he carries around, after all, and anybody who actually enjoys _Ulysses—_and can _understand _the damned thing at our age—has to have some kind of appreciation for the written word. He never sits next to me, even though I'm the only person he knows, and I don't expect that to change any time soon; Michael will be Michael and there's comfort in knowing that, no matter what, some things will always stay the same.

I'm pretending to read the open book in front of me when a memory breaks the surface of my apathetic reverie.

It's Alex, of course, because it's always Alex. But it's not the grayscale montage of his smiling face played to the tune of wailing violins. No, there is color and happy music and audio. Alex is dancing, stripping in his endearing awkwardness for Isabel. He is showing me a new song he's composed on his guitar. He is laughing with Maria and I over something inane. He is batting my hands away after I try to tickle him over and over again.

A giggle falls from my lips and I catch it before it gets too far, slapping a hand over my mouth, horrified.

How can I laugh? How _dare _I laugh?

Alex is dead. _Dead._

How dare I laugh when I'll never see him again, never laugh with him again, never tease him again? How dare I laugh when he's not here to share in my mirth? How dare I laugh when he will never call me 'baby girl' again?

He's gone and I'm a traitor, just like the others.

I chance a peek at my classmates, but none of them seem to have heard my treacherous giggle. I am relieved until my eyes meet Michael's from across the room, his expression unreadable. He watches me like a hawk and I duck my head, not wanting to see the judgment I am sure will be there.

He knows I am a traitor, too.

x

x

I am feeling brave tonight.

I pull out my journal and smooth my hand over the empty page. I remember my lapse and guilt weighs heavily upon me; I must remember if the others won't. I will not let his memory fade.

_I love you, Alex_, I write.

It's only one line and the rest of the page is still blank, but it's a start.

x

x

Another week drags by and I feel like something is changing. Awakening.

I don't know when it happened, but the block of ice that shields Isabel has melted, revealing a beautiful woman that glows like the sun. She smiles without restraint and has a funny laugh, and she gets shrill when she doesn't take care to modulate her volume. She doesn't bother to hide her vanity and is generous with both her opinions and her cosmetics. This girl I don't recognize is sweet and witty and wants to go shopping with Maria because I'm too busy spying on them from the sidelines to actually take part in anything.

Then, there is Michael. We will never be the best of friends and I'll always know him as the boy who stole my journal, but I had gotten tiny glimpses that would have told me so much more if I had only _looked_.

I cannot imagine what he's gone through in that trailer with Hank Whitmore, too young to have to worry about hiding bruises, but it's done its damage. It's still there, still etched in stone behind amber eyes that see too much and show too little, but he laughs now. He jokes around and talks more. Paired with Kyle's strange humor, their banter makes me want to laugh, too, in spite of myself. I had been unaware of their friendship, but I see it now and it's so odd and so perfect.

I had once believed that Max was Michael's only friend, but I was wrong. Max doesn't joke around like that, has _never _played around like that; his little remarks were always a touch too smeared with admonishment for them to be anything worth giggling over.

How had I missed it?

_How?_

I feel like the world's gone on without me and I've been left behind, out of touch and lost in time.

Some things, though, have stayed the same. One of those things is Kyle; there are ups and downs to having Kyle Valenti as an ex-boyfriend, chief among them being his mischievous side. Perhaps that is why he and Michael get along so fabulously.

When Kyle and I were romantically involved, I'd often go over to his house when I didn't have work. Sometimes, we'd make out or lounge in front of the television, just relaxing together as most young couples do. Sometimes, he'd make an effort to flick my butt with a towel. After I started avoiding him whenever he had some type of cloth in his possession, he went right onto smacking my ass. He knew it annoyed me, but he did it anyway—he said I looked adorable when I was mad.

I'm pretty sure they've been talking about me behind my back because, out of nowhere, Michael's picked up the habit.

There's nothing sexual behind it, I know, and there's definitely no smacking going on, but every time I grouse in the kitchen trying to avoid Max, Michael will flick my butt with that bandana of his. Every time I zone out during my shift, a rag will magically materialize in his hands and my butt is abused further. The first time it happened, I was too surprised to feel indignant over it; he had done it in front of Maria, and she hadn't said a thing about it, just snickered at my expense. I love my butterfly, but she's prone to more bouts of jealousy than anyone else I know. Surely, she'd object to Michael's new pastime.

But she doesn't and Michael keeps on doing it.

I think it's his way of saying, _Chin up, Parker_. I half expect him to start shouting, "Put your game face on, soldier!" which he doesn't, thankfully. He's trying to coax me out of my shell in his own way. It's irritating and degrading, but aside from the dirty looks I shoot at him, I can't find it within myself to dissuade him; it's the biggest hint of caring he's ever shown me, and I am shocked to realize just how much I actually miss my friends.

Have I been so blinded by Max, Max, _Max_, that I've missed what is really important?

The thought terrifies me.

x

x

I stare at my journal for an hour before I decide to ask it a question that's been buzzing around my head recently. I don't dare ask anyone else and unless a certain alien trespasser decides to steal it again, I know my journal can keep a secret.

_Is it okay to breathe again?_

When I crawl beneath the covers, I'm still afraid, still lost, still confused. I leave my journal on the nightstand, too tired, too weary to care. I clutch my pillow for comfort and when I close my eyes, I can see him, tall and lanky and adorable; he's pale because he's always been pale and his ears stick out a little, though not as badly as Max's. His smile is lopsided, full of pride and dreams that will never come to pass.

"It's okay to fall apart and it's okay to be happy."

I'm hearing things. I must be losing my mind, but I don't care because his voice is so real, so solid that my heart is breaking.

"It's okay to miss me, because I miss you guys, too. So, so much."

There's a ghost of warm breath on my arm and in my mind's eye, he rests his hand there, as he's done so many times before when his girls are beyond consolation. Alex has always had a way with us.

"But it's okay to let go, too."

I open my eyes, bursting with tears that instantly dampen my pillow, but he's gone. Grief stabs into me anew, threatening to send me into a tailspin, when my journal opens. I sit up as a breeze wafts in and flutters the pages _in the_ _wrong direction_ until the very last page is open, the two lines of shaky penmanship so small amidst the emptiness.

I'm losing my mind. I _have _to be.

"You used to pour your soul into this," I hear, just a whisper in my ear. "It was your outlet. Don't let this build up until you can't recognize yourself anymore, because the Liz I know never gives up."

The Liz he knows—_knew—_died with him. "I can't… there's nothing left to write," I whimper.

"Don't let my death kill us both."

I want to tell him that it's too late, that it's already happened and that it isn't my fault; I didn't _let _it happen, it just _did_ when I was too busy with my drama to pay attention. I want to ask him why he didn't take me with him when he left, why Tess decided to pick on him and not me. I want to scream with the injustice of it all. But a part of me remembers that it's too late—too early?—for such hysteria and that my parents are right down the hall, so I grit my teeth and swallow back the cry that begs to rip out of my chest.

My hand extends of its own volition, sliding the tome and the pen from the nightstand and onto my lap. I'm too tired, too lost, and my heart is too heavy to do this, but my fingers wrap around the pen. Something, apparently, wants to be said without my consent. Words form, heedless of my fatigue, and it's not until my muscles relax that I see what I've written.

_Maxwell Evans used to be my world, but now, he can suck my dick._

I yelp with laughter, surprised.

"'Atta girl."

x

x

It's closing time and the doors are locked, but Kyle, Max, and Isabel are still lounging at the counter, sipping on free milkshakes. Maria, Michael, and I are the only employees left in the building and though my father is usually very strict about customers afterhours, he doesn't seem to mind very much that I've broken his policy. Kyle says something about being the boss' daughter and the others laugh good-naturedly.

I retrieve the mop and broom, silent; I haven't said a word to anyone, nor have I looked in their direction, but as I start sweeping the floor, I find that I rather enjoy their company. My mind wanders to the strange dreams I've been having.

Maria's shriek echoes through the diner, jerking me from my musings. She giggles shortly afterward and, curious, I lean the broom against the counter. When I go to investigate, I find that the dishwasher is open, vomiting a mountain of suds. Michael and Maria have seized upon the opportunity and are in the midst of a full scale soap war; they are covered in bubbles and very, very wet.

I leave them to their own devices, trusting that they'll clean up their mess.

"_Liz!_" cries Maria, her voice breaking on a laugh. She bursts through the kitchen door, her wet, wrinkled fingers reaching for me. I have no idea what's going on until she ducks behind me. I want to tell her that she's bigger than I am and, therefore, I do not make the best of cover, but the words die in my throat when Michael, armed with a nozzle, follows his girlfriend into the dining room.

I am soaked within seconds and it is my turn to squeak as the cold water turns me into a sodden mess.

He's managed to catch the others in his line of fire and their exclamations of outrage join my own. Isabel lets loose a stream of vulgarity I had never imagined her capable of, Max is sputtering about something or other, and Kyle is lamenting over his ruined milkshake. Michael looks proud and unrepentant, victorious.

Dripping, I march over to the bucket of filthy water by the mop and grab it; he realizes my plan and tells me not to think about it.

With one great heave, I douse him.

"You are _so_ dead, Parker."

The Crash Down becomes a battlefield. Water and soap escalates to food and plates—I do not worry overly much about the collateral damage, as I will make sure one of the aliens cleans it up with a wave of their hand. It's five against one with Michael giving no quarter; even Max has joined the fray and I am too distracted with strategies and vengeance to care that he's too close to me. I am armed with an entire pie, waiting for Michael to poke his head out again; Kyle and Isabel each have a piece of cake and Max has a small stack of Styrofoam cups at his disposal. Maria is in the kitchen, too impulsive to consider the merits of patience, and has charged in, trying to defeat the giant alien on his turf. The rest of us are crouched in different booths, breathless, stomachs tight with anticipation.

Our game is dangerous and if my father finds out about this, I will be grounded till I'm thirty.

I do not realize that I am laughing.

x

x

I get an idea one day while I'm fighting with my hair. The stupid antennae keep ripping off half of my scalp every time I adjust it and it's driving me insane.

"I should just chop it all off," I grumble, sticking another order through the kitchen window.

"Talking to yourself again, Parker?"

Michael's had an air of arrogance around him ever since the Crash Down Throw Down—Kyle came up with the name—ended in a stalemate the other night. He considers himself the victor, as a five-to-one battle ending in a tie means that he'd managed to fend us off all on his own. Kyle wants a rematch and this makes me weary of ever letting anyone stay afterhours again; I'd been lucky that my father had not caught wind of our shenanigans. I'm through with tempting fate, thank you very much.

I ignore Michael, an epiphany striking me in the middle of a dinner rush.

Max loves my hair. He used to say that it was soft and beautiful, like chocolate silk running through his fingers. Every time he kissed me, he'd play with my hair and like a cat, I'd loved the attention and loved being petted even more.

The _ding_ of Michael's bell snaps me out of my thoughts. "Order up, Parker. I'm not cooking for myself here."

_I'll never know what Maria sees in him_, I think irritably as I glare at the annoying fry cook.

x

x

The Jetta's brakes squeal as Maria pulls into the alley leading to my balcony, and I am overtaken with nerves.

It's Monday and Maria had offered to give me a ride to school last night. She's volunteered to carpool Kyle, Michael and I, and she wanted to show me a pair of shoes she and Isabel had found in the mall over the weekend, but it's not shoes that I'm worried about. I play with a tendril of my hair, anxious.

When I'd contemplated chopping off my hair, I'd been serious. The actual chopping had nearly driven me to tears, but the desire for change, for _liberation_ had given me the strength to keep snipping off chunks of my long hair. Now, instead of the cascade Max so adored, I sport an asymmetrical bob; the bangs, admittedly, had not been a smart move, as I'd cut them sideways to feather across my chin. I have to brush them out of my eyes every few minutes, but to cut them any shorter would make me look ridiculous. Which my mother thought I already was, judging by the scandalized squawk she gave when she saw me this morning. My father muttered something about teenagers before kissing my forehead, but regardless of what they think, I do not regret a thing.

Max will have nothing to look at now.

"Any day now, Parker!" Michael yells.

Maria beeps the horn and I know that I've dawdled for too long.

I take a deep breath and steel myself, striding across my balcony to throw my leg over the edge.

Maria belts out a little squeal once she catches sight of me. I hop off of the final step to see that she's jumped out of the car with the engine still running, her jaw hanging dramatically. She, of course, gives the situation way more flair than it deserves. I can't help smiling a bit; Maria will always be Maria and I love her for that.

Michael has gotten out of the passenger seat—rule number one in Maria's car: chicks before dicks. He stands halfway to the backseat, looking at me with that hint of a smirk on his face and I suddenly feel like my shorts are too small.

"Nice," he comments. "What next, a tattoo?"

"Oh. My. _God_," is Maria's opinion. "What have you _done?_"

I try not to fidget and fail, tugging on the hem of my shirt. "That bad?" I quip, wondering if I've truly disfigured myself.

"Looks good," says Michael as Maria continues to gape.

I beam at him.

We pile into the Jetta and Maria's completely forgotten about the shoes she'd wanted my opinion on. She's all over the place, speaking faster than most humans can understand. She tugs on my bangs, pinches my cheeks, and goes on and on about my poor hair and asking why I hadn't told her before. When Michael cuts in loudly from the back about missing the turn to Kyle's house, Maria switches angles just as quickly and now it's all about how adorable I am and the shopping venture we absolutely _must_ embark on.

I wonder if Isabel will come shopping with us.

Kyle whistles when he sees me, long and low, before he climbs into the backseat. Maria is still gushing and chattering, talking over everyone, but I don't mind too much. All of the attention is giving me the complexion of a tomato, though, and Maria's distraction is becoming worrisome; when she's too busy fluffing my head to make a turn, I huff and bat her hands away.

We're going to be late and I _hate_ being late.

"Switch," I sigh.

Maria freezes, caught off guard. "What?"

"I'm driving," I say, and push at her.

Maria shrugs and we switch, clamoring over each other. I am small enough to pull it off with little trouble and after years of practice, it only takes a few seconds of rocking the Jetta before I am adjusting the driver's seat to accommodate my shorter stature. Maria kneels on hers and turns her body to encompass the three of us, one hand idly playing with my hair again. She's breaking every rule of passenger safety, but she looks so happy that I don't have the heart to scold her for it.

"It's called a door," Michael informs us.

"Overrated," I say, adjusting the rearview mirror. The boys are looking at me through it and I catch their eyes with a smirk of my own. "You're just mad I copped a feel on your girlfriend."

Michael snorts. "_I'm_ not complaining."

Maria rolls her eyes as the guys high-five each other. "_Boys._"

I giggle and it feels good.

x

x

Isabel pounces on me the moment I open my locker. How the towering goddess manages to catch me unaware is anyone's guess, especially in those heels. "You are never to cut your hair without me present. Understood?"

Her tone triggers something strange and my spine straightens. "Hello, Isabel," I try weakly.

"_Understood?_"

Which one had been the general in the past life? I nod, nervous. "Yes, ma'am," I say without thinking, fighting the urge to salute.

She stares at my short brown bob with intent. "Good," she says, but there's something in her eyes I'm wary of.

Michael and Kyle laugh. They'd followed me into school, all through the halls and to my locker, like personal escorts. They've never done that before and I have no idea why they hover over me now, but I don't mind. Not really. Maria walks over with a grin that reminds me of the old days, before tragedy and little green men took over my life, and a sense of peace washes over me. I feel surrounded and important, like I matter, and I haven't felt that way in a very long time.

"Have fun, Parker," Michael says and reaches out to pull a stunned Max along with them as both he and Kyle make their way to their own lockers.

I hadn't realized Max was there.

"Come on," Isabel instructs. She grabs my hand before I can object.

Maria pursues us into the girls' bathroom. What follows is a series of events I could have never foreseen.

Isabel is the goddess of fashion and beauty—has always been known as such, long before she and I became well acquainted—and she reinforces that image with militant ease. She uses her powers to soothe the jagged trimming, fluffing and spearing her fingers through dark strands while muttering to herself. Maria sits on the sink, watching on in amusement as Isabel changes the part of my hair.

"I like the uneven mushroom idea," comments Isabel, massaging my scalp. It feels magnificent, which is partly why her primping doesn't bother me as much as it should. I've forgotten how wonderful it is to be touched. "It suits you really well. But you need to have someone to do it for you, because the angle is impossible to get right on your own." She leans back to survey her work. "Perfect," she declares and I flush at the praise. Her eyes roam over my head, my face, my chest, before glaring at my clothes. "Now, about that shirt."

"My shirt?" What's wrong with my shirt?

"You need a new wardrobe." Isabel touches the plain black fabric and a cherry red camisole takes its place. "There. Much better."

"_Isabel!_" I hiss, glancing around the empty restroom. Using her powers so haphazardly is dangerous and she should know better.

She waves away my paranoia. "You're not shy, right?"

"What?"

Another touch of a perfectly manicured nail and my denim shorts shrink. They swirl with color before oozing into black, barely covering more than my underwear, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "I can't wear this," I whisper, mortified. What if I have to pick something off of the floor? What if I have to bend down for some other reason?

"Sure you can," is Isabel's reply.

"Relax, _chica_," says Maria brightly. "You look amazing."

Isabel crouches down, inspecting the worn white sneakers on my feet. "How many inches?"

"What?" I don't even know where to begin.

She nods to herself. "We'll go with three, for now." And sneakers melt into diamonds, sparkling and beautiful and entirely too fancy for school.

I am Cinderella. A small, dark, overwhelmed Cinderella with an alien fairy godmother.

"_Ohmigawd_," Maria gasps. "Are those Jimmy Choos? From that new line?"

Full of pride, Isabel stands and takes a step back. "Yep," she chirps. "Beautiful, aren't they?"

"I think I'm in love with you," Maria states.

"I wonder what Michael would say," Isabel quips, bright eyes laughing. She turns back to me, calculating and playful. "Just a few more tweaks. How do you feel about jewelry?"

x

x

For the first time in our acquaintance, Michael takes the chair next to me in English. There's something different about the way he looks at me and I can't quite put my finger on it. I fight between sitting up straighter and curling into a ball.

"Isabel went Nazi on your ass, didn't she." It's not a question so much as an observation.

I risk a peek at him, irrationally shy, and the gems of my new dangling earrings chime when I turn my head. "That's one way to put it."

He lets out a puff of humor through his nose, casting one last glance in my direction before pulling out his notebook. "She does good work," he says, and the compliment makes my toes curl.

I duck my head, trying to hide my sheepish smile behind a waterfall of hair that is no longer there. I am inexplicably pleased and it bugs me because I've never been particularly vain. All of these compliments and attention will go to my head, I'm certain, but it feels good. At this rate, I'll never get the blush off of my face.

x

x

Maria and Isabel catch up to me in the cafeteria, eager to tell me of the plans they've made. I shut my book and smile at them.

Surprisingly, Kyle and Max come to our table together, though the distance between them can fit another person. Michael easily fills that space and more, a slice of pizza already in his mouth. Drops of hot sauce drip from the cheese and onto his plate; Maria makes a face at him.

The girls want to hit the mall after school and they want me to come along. I am hesitant because I'll have to ask for a loan from my father, as the money I've saved up and the inheritance from Grandma Claudia are not to be touched until I'm eighteen. I can easily pay him back within a few shifts if I budget correctly, but I also have work tonight. I don't know if he'll condone my ditching _and _spending his money, and I usually don't condone such behavior, either. But the desire to do just that is thick and heavy and I want to badly enough that I agree.

Later, after school ends and Maria is parked in front of the Crash Down, waiting, I steel myself for the inevitable. I know my dad and I fully expect him to be disappointed with me for asking such a thing. I'm prepared for the lecture, for the argument, and for the excuses I will have to make to the girls.

Instead, dad gives me a toothy grin. "Whatever you want, baby girl," he says, and kisses my forehead like he used to when I was little.

Emotion chokes me. Tears prick my eyes at the tenderness he shows.

As I'm leaving, I pass Michael, who's shrugging on his uniform. He smirks at me, all humor and warmth. "Have fun, _baby girl_."

I stick my tongue out at him.

x

x

We get tattoos. _Matching _tattoos.

It stung like hell and they'd told me a bunch of stuff at the tattoo parlor, like scabbing and lotion and keeping it clean. Tattoos are high maintenance, apparently.

I wonder if our flight of whimsy will be something I'll regret in the years to come, but I find that I don't really care. After all, if Future Liz is as stupid as Future Max had been, I think that my future self will have bigger problems than ink.

My dad's going to throw a fit.

Still, looking over the fine calligraphy forever imprinted on the inside of my left wrist, I think it'll be worth it.

_Stay strong_.

x

x

"You know I was kidding about the tattoo thing, right Parker?" drawls Michael a few days later, clocking in.

In truth, I'd forgotten about his comment. "Not a fan?" I tease.

He is not amused. "Not when Maria's questioning my masculinity because I don't have one."

I giggle. "So, why don't you?"

"What?"

"Get a tattoo."

"Why?"

I shrug, trying not to imagine the giant torso tattoos I'd seen posted on the walls of the tattoo parlor. Michael, with his large frame, would more than do them justice. I'm sure Maria would drool for the next year if Michael decided to get something like that done. "I don't know. To express yourself?"

He's exasperated with me. I can tell. "I have bills to pay, Parker," he says and moves towards his locker without another word.

My light mood cracks a little and I wonder what I said wrong.

x

x

Another impulse has me visiting the same parlor a week later. My shirt is hiked up to my arms, my bra unhooked as I straddle a chair with my underwear showing and my shorts unbuttoned.

Immodest doesn't _begin_ to describe me.

Michael's words have been haunting me, rolling around my head like little black flies in the desert heat, but while he may think it's a waste of money, I want to do this. I don't need anyone's approval, let alone his. I don't know why I let him get to me in the first place, other than the look he gave me before walking away. Still, this is _my _choice and it's been so long since I've lived for myself.

Of course, Maria is with me because I'm too chicken to do this without someone to hold my hand.

Maria, who looks worried. "You sure about this, _cariño_?"

I nod, but I'm not as confident as I pretend to be. If my wrist had hurt, how much worse is this going to be?

The needle touches me and I yowl, clutching Maria's hand with all of my strength.

"Why'd you let me do this?" I half yell and the tattoo artist behind me chuckles just loud enough for me to hear.

x

x

"What the hell is that?"

I stiffen, wary of my father's anger. I hate disappointing him, but I'm so sick of lying to him. Besides, there's not much that will account for the miles of gauze that makes my uniform bulge enough to catch his attention. "A tattoo," I admit, my voice small.

"_Another _one?" A muscle leaps in his jaw. "Don't make a habit of this, Elizabeth."

_Ouch_. It's never a good thing when he uses my full name. "I won't," I promise, and it's true. This will be the last one.

Still tense, my father makes for the door to the kitchen. He stops just before he pushes through and looks back at me. "What is it?" he asks, and I remember where I'd inherited my insatiable curiosity from.

I smile. "It's a memorial."

The look he gives me is soft and I know he's not mad anymore. "I want to see it when it heals."

"It's not done yet," I explain. "It's, um, kind of big, so I, uh… I have to go back."

He raises an eyebrow at my stammering. "How big is 'kind of' big?"

"Uh…" I scratch the inside of my wrist. "Do I have to answer that?"

x

x

One bright Sunday morning, I find myself on the phone with Isabel and Maria, making plans for the summer.

Summer is only a few months away and after that, senior year. Isabel is the only one graduating this year, but she's managed to wring a promise out of Kyle to bring her to his senior Prom. Kyle doesn't seem terribly put upon, having his date decided for him so far ahead, and I am curious as to what is going on there. I can't really blame Isabel, though. Our junior Prom had too many mixed feelings attached to it.

We don't stay on the phone for very long after that.

I feel a keen shame that it's taken me so long to realize that none of them have truly moved on, like I'd initially believed, but they are much better at pretending than I am.

x

x

On Monday, I see Max hovering by my locker, his face a study in anxiety.

My first instinct is to march over there and give him a piece of my mind. We are over and I want nothing to do with him. How can he think I will touch him, kiss him, _love_ him after everything? That I won't think of Tess every time he declares his undying devotion? That I will forget how he'd let his pretty little murderess go? If he does, I'm going to set him straight.

But then, there's an ache in my chest when I look at him and I cannot deny that he still tugs on my heartstrings.

This lost little boy saved my life. He'd put everyone he cared for on the line for me and once upon a time, I'd been sure that he'd really loved me. Mind, body, and soul. In a world without Tess, where Alex was still alive and our group was not so scarred, we would have reached the stars. I know this, because I'd felt it before.

Now? I'm still very much sure that love doesn't feel like this.

So it's with a deep breath and a heavy heart that I walk over to my locker, as calmly as I can, and allow Max to speak for the first time in ages. After a while, his voice no longer grates on my nerves and the urge to throttle him disappears, replaced with sorrow and the first hint of forgiveness. Quietly, I lament that we could not make it, that our love had not been strong enough for any trial and tribulation and a part of me cries out at the injustice. A part of me wants to hug him and erase the hurt I can see so clearly, wants to let him sweep me away in a fairytale we both know will not have a Happily Ever After. I'm weak enough to accept an embrace from him, silently saying goodbye to the first love that had made me feel beautiful and important, like I mattered.

I don't want to cut him out altogether. I still need my lab partner and Max is a good person beneath his horrible decisions. We're both to blame for a lot of things, mostly because we're still teenagers and still idiots. Max laughs when I tell him so, the sound sad and hopeful. I laugh, too, because it's been forever since I've been able to laugh with him. The feeling is so familiar, so wonderful, that I almost lose my resolve all over again.

But I can't keep breaking our hearts like this. Something has to give. We need to start healing.

I finally find the courage to close that saga of my life.

Grandma Claudia had told me to follow my heart and even though I've screwed it up a few times, I'm still trying to honor her final wish.

x

x

On Tuesday, Kyle's attempt at brightening the mood has disastrous results.

"Welcome to the Sad Ex-boyfriends of Elizabeth Parker club, _mi amigo_," Kyle quips, slapping Max on the back. They share a laugh and whatever else they say is lost in the chatter of the busy diner.

I freeze in the kitchen, dressed in a new uniform with my apron untied. I don't think I was supposed to hear that, but how can I not when the kitchen window is right there? Kyle had been loud enough for the entire café to hear. He has to know that.

I try to dismiss it, try to pretend I hadn't heard a thing, but my muscles won't move.

Does Kyle resent me? I thought he'd forgiven me, that he'd gotten past that. I thought we were pretty good friends. True, most of that has to do with the aliens' secret and the fact that Max had saved his life—the Buddhism helps—but he… he doesn't really think… he couldn't possibly…

Oh, god. Am I really that kind of woman? That kind of _person_?

Will they trade anecdotes about me now? Will they compare stories and intimate moments? Will they laugh about me every time I walk by?

"Parker?"

I snap out of my stupor to find Michael staring at me. His eyes know too much.

He must have heard Kyle, too.

"Don't take it personally," he says, confirming my suspicions. He turns back toward the grill. "He's just an idiot."

I nod, but I'm still wary of starting my shift. We've all made mistakes, we've all suffered the consequences, and we are all still learning how to live again. I'd started believing that, together, we could get through it; if we stick together, nothing like Tess can ever happen again. Breaks ups and make ups will not keep us down.

Perhaps, I'd been wrong.

Michael whacks Kyle upside the head when he clocks out. I appreciate the gesture and even giggle at Kyle's affronted yelp, but it doesn't fix anything.

Like sadness, self-loathing takes a long time to go away.

x

x

I start to avoid everyone, even Maria.

At work, I say nothing. At school, I say nothing. At home, I hide in my bedroom, ignoring the phone.

I feel like my heart is breaking all over again.

x

x

My self-imposed isolation lasts for a whopping three days.

Michael corners me at English, where he's kept the seat next to mine. He's always quiet, always watching, but today he fixes me with a glare and throws a ball of crumpled paper at my head. It's a note, of course, which makes me fume. He could have just passed the damned thing instead of using me as target practice.

_What the fuck is wrong with you?_

I scrunch my nose at the slanted handwriting.

_Nothing_, I write, and throw the ball back at him.

He aims for my head again. _Bullshit_, the note says this time. His eloquence is staggering.

_Quit hitting me_, I write back.

_Then quit your emo bullshit because it's driving me insane._

I stare at the words for a long moment, confused. _Explain._

_ Maria_, it says in all capital letters.

_What?_

When I get the note back, he's circled _driving me insane_ and _Maria_, drawing a double-headed arrow to join them. _Get the picture?_

"Miss Parker," says the instructor, halting the lesson I haven't been paying attention to. I straighten in my seat. "Mister Guerin. Is there something you'd like to share with the class?"

I shake my head in the negative, giving Mister Harrison my best innocent face.

It doesn't work.

"Wonderful. Then you can both share it with me in detention."

x

x

"Way to go, Parker."

"Are you kidding me?" I'm ready to explode, stuck between whacking him with my textbooks until he bleeds and blowing up his precious motorcycle. I can_not_ believe he's gotten me in trouble.

"Do I _look _like I'm joking?"

"You…" I purse my lips, trying not to scream at him, but he raises his eyebrow at me and I don't bother with restraint. "_Asshole!_ Do you have _any _idea how pissed my dad's going to be? We're going to be late for work and it's entirely _your _fault!"

He shrugs. "I prefer making money over detention. Have fun with Harry."

"_What?_" Oh, no, he is _not_ going to leave me alone to serve our punishment. We reach my locker and I open it with too much force. It closes on me and I rip it open again, raging. "You are _not_ getting away with this."

"Oh?" Michael looks genuinely amused.

I'm already thinking of places to hide his body. "I'm the boss' daughter, in case you've forgotten." It's a low blow, but I don't care. "You are _going _to serve this detention with me, or so help me god, I will switch your schedule." I switch my books and slam my locker closed, glaring up at him.

But he's not looking at me.

I turn to find Maria and Isabel behind me, hesitant. I don't think twice as I stalk toward them and away from the bane of my existence. He doesn't follow me and I'm glad, although it doesn't explain why he'd walked me to my locker in the first place, or how the girls knew to be here at that exact moment.

"Your boyfriend _sucks_, Maria!"

I don't realize that he's set me up till much, much later.

x

x

This isn't happening.

I am _not_ serving detention right now. I am _not_ writing, 'I will not disrupt Mister Harrison's class' a thousand times. I did _not _just get off the phone with my father a little while ago, explaining why both his waitress and his fry cook were going to be over an hour late for their shifts. I am _not_ grounded for two weeks.

I am going to kill Michael.

After I thank him, of course.

x

x

"Valenti or Max?"

I glare at Michael. "I'm not talking to you," I inform him.

"You already fucked _that_ one up, so you might as well tell me."

He is insufferable. I ring the bell in the kitchen window just to annoy him.

It doesn't work.

"Maria thinks it's Max, but I'm pretty sure it's Valenti and that whole crack about your ex-boyfriends."

When did he become such a chatterbox? I ring the bell a few more times. I don't know Morse code, but I'm willing to learn; the satisfaction from calling him all types of names in bell form would be immense. I pretend to do so, making up my own code in my head.

"Contrary to what you chicks think, guys don't know what you're thinking. He's never going to know what he did wrong unless you tell him, and you're never going to get the truth unless you ask."

I hate that he's right.

I steal the bell and put it in the pocket of my uniform.

x

x

The perceived slight is just that. _Perceived_.

Kyle meant nothing by his joke and I readily admit that I was being too sensitive. I should have gone to him in the first place, he tells me, because he—_they—_worry when I 'pull a Parker' and shut everyone out. We're in this together, he says, and he promises not to use me as cannon fodder.

It's exactly what I need to hear.

x

x

On Saturday, Michael makes it a point to flick me on the butt with a rag every time I go into the kitchen. He does this until I return 'his' bell.

We, too, go back to normal.

x

x

It takes two more trips and a bunch of tips to get my tattoo finished. Maria comes with me both times and while I'm certain her hand hurts, Maria never complains about it.

"You've got some big _cojones_, _chica_."

I sniffle. "Doesn't feel like it," I whine. I hadn't known that 'shading' was synonymous with 'torture'.

"Once it heals, it's going to look amazing." Maria helps me crawl into the Jetta. "You're going to look _so _badass."

I highly doubt that, but my butterfly has made me believe in stranger things.

We eat ice cream in the diner to make me feel better.

I'm forced to wear my loose shirts again, much to Isabel's chagrin. She and I have been waging a friendly war, mostly out of habit; I continue to wear simple clothes and she continues to kidnap me every morning before the first bell, dragging me into the bathroom stalls to work her magic on her very own Lizerella. It's stupid and pointless, but I'm too practical to deal with fashion and she's too stubborn to leave me to my own devices. Neither of us complains and it's become our ritual, a reason for us to get closer, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's nice to walk around in comfortable shoes again, though. Tugging on short hems had been the norm for a little while there and it's a relief to not have to worry about my butt showing, or my breasts popping out if I lean over just so; I don't have much in the way of assets, but I _do _have them. As long as it doesn't pull on my sensitive flesh, I'm free to stretch, bend, and move as I please in these bummy clothes—Isabel's term, not mine.

My days of comfort are numbered.

But when the scabs chip away and my skin is no longer tender, I keep my word. My dad is the first to see the masterpiece I'd had grafted onto my body.

The tangle of ink is intricate, the swirls and ellipses are geometrically perfect, the colors rich and deep with a steady black outline. Petals rain down my side, interwoven with ribbons of tragedy and among the lines are numbers; births and deaths, dawns and dusks. They bleed across one side of my ribcage into a puddle that spreads across my lower back and above my tailbone, perfectly centered, are words I'm still trying to live by.

_Follow Your Heart._

I can't show him the whole of it. Doing so requires much more than just lifting my shirt a bit and I doubt my father wants to see just how much of a little girl I'm not. Still, standing in his office with most of my torso bare, I think my father is almost _proud_ of me.

"It's beautiful, Lizzie," he says, and I smile.

Even if no one else on Earth will approve, I'm very happy and proud with myself, but I'm honest enough to know that his approval of my memorial makes me even happier.

I nearly skip from the room when he stops me. "Just don't show your mother, yet. We're going to have to break it to her easy."

I wince. That's one conversation I'm not looking forward to.

x

x

It's a Wednesday when, after Isabel gives me yet another makeover, I turn toward my reflection.

My _faceless _reflection.

The world tips on its axis and I sway, eyes wide. The mirror holds a blur that's supposed to be Liz Parker, but that warped splatter of flesh colored ooze is _not_ me. My pulse is an angry drumbeat. I can hear the blood rushing in my veins, above even the shrill ringing in my ears. My feet, encased in dazzling heels from the Isabel Evans line, can no longer support me and I fall to my knees.

"Liz?"

I look up and I can't tell which blonde is which; their faces are gone, like mine.

"Liz? Liz, honey, what's wrong?"

I'm shaking so hard that my bones hurt.

"Liz?"

The ringing is so loud. So, so loud. I try to block the sound by clamping my hands over my ears, but it's futile. It grows louder, screaming, slicing through my head painfully. My throat hurts, my chest hurts, my _body_ hurts, and as tears prick my eyes, I just want quiet.

"_Liz!_"

The frantic cry startles me, snapping me out of it. I glance up and see Isabel and Maria with their faces—their pretty, pretty faces I will never take for granted again—not so far from my own. One of them must have fetched the boys at some point because they're here, too; Kyle is crouched next to me with Max standing right behind him, both of them boring holes into my skull as if they can glean the information from my brain. Michael's giant hands, I realize, are wrapped around my biceps and had the situation been any other, I'm sure our proximity would have had me superbly uncomfortable.

But the agony is gone. That dreadful ringing is gone.

Michael slowly loosens his grip. "You okay, Parker?"

I stare at his fingers, at his knuckles, at the pale skin touching me. Fine ivory against burnt gold. "Fine," I breathe, unable to look away. I am in a daze and I don't know which way is up anymore.

"What happened?" Kyle this time.

Michael backs off altogether and my equilibrium shifts slightly. Why have I never noticed how Michael's eyes fluctuate between crystalized amber and unprocessed honey? Or how his hair is the softest autumn, curling gently at the ends?

"Loud," I rasp. I swallow, my throat suddenly parched. "It was… loud."

Michael, who keeps my gaze unflinchingly, frowns deeply. "That's because you were screaming."

I frown, too. "No, I… I wasn't…" I pause, unsure. Maria touches me, just the smallest brush of my hair, and I jerk. Whatever spell that binds me breaks and I blink rapidly, tearing my eyes away from Michael.

I feel so tired.

Slowly, I peel myself off of the cold tiles of the girls' bathroom, brushing away the offered help. As a precaution, I check the mirror. Liz Parker stares back, still in one piece, if a little rattled. She looks kind of pale and her eyes are wider than I've ever seen them, but I'm sure she'll be all right. I watch as her hands, still shaking, come up to cover those spooked brown eyes.

I'm losing it. I have to be.


	2. TWO

**LOVE BITES**

(but so do I)

**TWO**

My friends hover like shadows long after I reassure them that I'm hale and whole. Their worry is understandable, given all that we've been through; in the wake of Alex, no one can be too careful.

But the way they make sure to accompany me absolutely _everywhere _is exhausting.

Every morning, Kyle and Michael ride with Maria and me to school. Depending on Maria's mood, she may or may not be the designated driver of the day, but we work out the rotations easily enough. I'm the least experienced driver with the highest safety awareness, so I'm usually the one that steals the wheel, not that Maria ever minds. My driving means she can talk and rant and go on about whatever's lurking in her mind without distraction. The only drawback to our carpooling system is the radio, as the fights over the music have a tendency to get out of hand; Maria and I share similar tastes, as do Kyle and Michael, but there isn't a lot of common ground when all four of us are taken into account.

Theoretically, it is our diversity that makes us stronger as a unit.

Unfortunately, in this situation, that is not the case.

We bicker endlessly over which tunes to play. Well, _they_ bicker, whereas I'm content with whatever is inevitably decided. Sometimes Maria is feeling generous and allows the boys their fun, and other days, she must listen to one of her goddesses because—and I quote—"My soul like, _needs_ this." Thankfully, my butterfly is a marvelous songstress, so when she belts out lyrics with all the passion of a dying woman, it's always beautiful.

When we arrive at school, Max and Isabel join us. We move as one to my locker, where I am granted a reprieve from their attentions; they scatter to their own lockers before quickly returning to mine, and then we continue our trek to my first class. They clutter around my desk shamelessly, dripping over the nearby tables and chairs until the bell rings. I worry that their new routine is going to interfere with their attendance record, but none of them seem as concerned by this as I am, and I hope that they are careful. I do not want their schoolwork to suffer because of me.

In the five minutes between each period, one or all of them will find me and stick to my side. Shared classes result in a permanent shadow for the time being, which will then switch, depending on which subject I have with whom. Lunchtime is a free-for-all of food critics and picky eaters as we share our meal; Michael eats more than all of us combined, while I eat the least, and we divide our plates accordingly.

What's unnerving to me is the reaction from the other students. We move and people make room, scurrying out of our path. They stare and whisper, but no one approaches us.

I'm watching the inner workings of a hive mind, and I don't like it.

Work is the easiest to handle. Maria is distracted by the patrons and Michael is stuck on the grill. Max has taken up his favored booth, watching me with those doe eyes of his when he thinks I'm not looking, and Isabel and Kyle like to lounge on the stools, roping me into their lighthearted conversations whenever I have a moment to spare.

It's sweet, what they're doing, but it's unnecessary. I try to bear their well-meaning scrutiny as gracefully as possible because I understand where they're coming from. We've all been clutching each other a little desperately, afraid we'll lose someone else, and while I chafe under the microscope they've put me under, I still make time to smile and reassure them. If the shoe was on the other foot, I know I'd have freaked out long ago, probably much more intrusively than they're handling it. Soothing their fears is hardly difficult.

The bitter irony is that they cannot protect me from myself.

It doesn't last terribly long, however. As with all things, time relaxes their guard. The tense vigilance dies down and the semblance of normalcy we've adopted shifts.

It's afterhours again in the Crash Down. I wasn't on the schedule; Maria and Michael were. They've been off the clock for an hour and their uniforms are gradually peeling away to reveal a camisole, or a muscle shirt. I have absolutely no right to let my friends stay long after the diner has closed, but my father has been nothing short of indulgent with me and lets me have my way.

No soap wars, though. I don't care how much Michael appeals to my competitive side. My dad's less than ten feet away, taking inventory in the back room, and there's no way I'm going to get myself into that kind of trouble. Or that kind of cleanup; the amount of alien juju it takes to make this place look spotless will bring down the entire bureau on our doorstep. I'm lucky my dad's never found out about the _last _time and I pelt him with school supplies until he shuts his big mouth about it.

He mutters something about daddy's little girl and I ignore him, flipping through my textbook.

SAT's are coming up and I'm studying. I've been trying to do so since I came home from school, but I couldn't concentrate upstairs, where I was alone. As much as I yearn for some space, I've grown too used to having the white noise of my favorite voices buzzing in the background. Frustrated, I brought my books and my slippers down to the diner, stealing a booth shortly before my father locked up. Now, I'm enjoying the banana milkshake Michael has so kindly made me while trying to memorize multiple syllabic words I've hardly used before, the comforting chatter of my friends wrapping around me like a warm blanket. I'm alone in my booth, but nowhere near as lonely as I'd been upstairs.

A hand engulfs my shoulder and I look up, startled.

My father's leaning over me, skimming over the four tomes spread out over the table. "Still studying? On a Friday night?"

"Yeah," I admit on the edge of a groan. I glare over at the hardback still closed in a corner. "Equations and formulas aren't a problem. Give me something like _that_ and it's like I'm reading Japanese."

He follows my line of sight and picks up the offender. "_Ulysses?_" I shudder at the name. "They're putting _Ulysses_ on your SAT's?"

"No." I take a spoonful of my milkshake. Thick and creamy, just how I like it. "That's for class. It's due in a week, but I can't read a single chapter without getting a headache." Which is annoying. I've had this migraine for days, and no amount of medication seems to phase it.

My dad replaces the book. "I'm sure you'll get it. You're the smartest girl I know."

I appreciate the sentiment. "Thanks."

"Don't study too hard, _mija_." He kisses the top of my head, ruffling my short hair before he steps back. "And don't stay up too late. You're opening."

"I remember."

He heads toward the back of the restaurant. "Good. Holler if you need me."

"Night, Mister Parker," is the chorus that erupts from the others as he strolls by.

"Night, kids. Don't make a mess," he warns with a grin, and disappears.

The chatter resumes and I get back to reading. _Abrogate. Harbingers. Labyrinthine. _The list of vocabulary words and their meanings swirl around my head, most of them already familiar to me. _Laceration. Absolution. Reprieve_.

I catch little snippets of conversation, something about hockey and movies and body counts, and I feel perfectly content where I am. There's a heady sense of rightness, as if I'm finally where I'm supposed to be. I only wish we could have found this unity sooner. All we need is Alex sharing some horrible joke he found online, or rocking out on his guitar.

The sense of harmony fades. My eyes fall to the last word on the page.

_Lachrymose._

Nothing feels right anymore.

"You have to stop bringing yourself down like this."

That voice. That voice I hear in the twilight hours of slumber. That voice that breathes sweet sentiments in my ear when I least expect it. That voice I love so dearly and cannot stand to hear. It jerks me out of my thoughts, a full body twitch that nearly forces me from my seat.

To my horror, he's sitting across from me, fingers woven together in a deep contemplation of his own, staring at me with those soulful eyes that I'd give anything to be real. He doesn't speak again, but he leans closer and I can see the wrinkle in his brow, the sadness in the downward curve of his mouth. My hands curl into fists, fighting the desire to claw my eyes out, to launch myself across the table and curl around him.

_Why are you haunting me, Alex?_ My vision blurs and I curse the need to blink. When I do, he's gone, and my body shakes hard enough to tear itself apart.

Kyle chooses that moment to hop off of his stool, stretching. "All right, boys and girls. I got work in the morning, so I'm heading out." He finishes off his milkshake and grabs his jacket.

"I have work in _an hour_," Michael remembers, and follows suit. "Want a ride?"

"Sure," Kyle accepts. "But _I_ get to wear the helmet this time."

"Just watch the hands, Wee Man."

I stand to lock up after them, willing my quaking legs into action. Isabel and Maria gather their things, conscious of the time, and Max brings up the rear with his schoolbag. A part of me wants them to stay, to chase away these hallucinations that feel so real, but another part needs them to go so that I can lose my mind properly, without an audience. I'm so torn, so afraid, so lonely, I don't know what to do except walk my friends to the door and let them out.

Kyle seems to sense my turmoil because the hug he gives me is fierce. I clutch at him for a second before he lets go, and that needy part of me cries out.

Michael gives me a nod. He always gives me a nod and I understand that it's just his way, but it's not enough for me tonight. On an impulse, I wrap my arms around as much of him as I can, burying my face in his chest for the longest moment of my life. He smells like grease and pumpernickel bread, like safety and solace and sanctuary. I crave the closeness, crave the warmth, and the awkward pat he gives me is more than I expect.

I embrace Isabel, then Maria, with more enthusiasm than I ever have before. I give Max the same affection and I can sense the relieved pleasure rolling off of him in waves.

_Help me_, I beg. _You promised me the stars, once upon a time. Stop me from hearing this voice everywhere. Stop me from driving myself insane._

I may have spoken aloud because I catch them watching me through the window, alarmed and confused as I close the door behind them, clicking the lock into place. Or perhaps my eyes are too wide and they can see the petrified desperation I'm trying so hard to hide. Perhaps they can hear the scream trapped within my throat. Perhaps they can see my hands shaking, or the way my smile hurts too much to maintain for long. I don't want them to see me this way; they'd finally grown relaxed in my company and I do not want to give them a reason to worry again. They don't need the stress.

I wave goodbye and it's not until I turn away, sniffling, that I realize I've been crying.

x

x

I'm cowering in my room, trying to lose myself in my schoolwork, when my mother barges in. She tells me that one of her sisters in Philadelphia wants us to visit; I have a newborn cousin and I haven't seen my Aunt Margie since I was eight, and my mother wants me to accompany her.

I'm surprised when I agree.

I immediately rescind my decision. Missing school is a big problem for me, but leaving my friends for so long has me in a frenzy. What if something happens and I'm not here? What if there's trouble and no one can reach me? A week is an awfully long time to be gone and I don't think I can rest easy so far from Roswell.

Not that I've gotten much sleep recently, not with these nightmares and ghostly apparitions.

Perhaps my eager, reflexive desire to flee is not so surprising.

But this is something that does not affect me alone. We're a unit, my friends and I, and there are potential consequences to whatever I choose. Restless, I pace for half an hour before I call Max, demanding we have a meeting. "My room, fifteen minutes," I bark, and hang up the phone before he can get a word in edgewise.

I'm still pacing when they arrive, five rushed pairs of hands and feet clamoring up my ladder.

It's Sunday night, but my father has kept me off of the schedule for my self-imposed SAT preparations. I haven't seen them since Friday night due to avoidance on my part. I know none of them have work and I know that none of them care about being tardy for school tomorrow morning. Guilt sets in because I would have still called this meeting even if they _did_ have other obligations; I'm simply too wound up to care.

When they climb into my room, crawling through the window, I'm suddenly conscious of my yellow sleepwear and the cartoons dancing across the fabric. It doesn't stop me from wearing a hole in the floor, but it makes me pause to smooth out my spiky bedhead.

I'm a mess.

Nervous, I start babbling as soon as Kyle stumbles into my room. "My mom wants me to go with her to Philadelphia to see my baby cousin and I don't think it's such a good idea." I ruin my hard work by dragging a hand through my hair. "I mean, she said it's okay if I want to stay, but I really want to go, but what if something happens? What if something goes wrong?" I stop, pivot, and resume my march. "And then there's school. And it's for a whole week. Do you know what can happen in a week?"

I take a breath. Max, poor, confused Max opens his mouth to talk, but I cut him off. I'm not done yet and I remember all too well how his royal highness likes to get his two cents in. Which is a little unfair of me, granted, but I'm in no mood to play nice.

"_Everything_ can happen in a week. How the hell am I supposed to go all the way to the east coast when we have no idea what could be looking for us? What if they follow me? I don't even have a cellphone, how am I supposed to get in contact with you guys if they follow me?"

Stop, pivot, march.

"But maybe that's a good thing. It'll draw them away from here, away from you guys, and maybe, maybe, _maybe_—"

"Are you shitting me, Parker?"

I freeze, glancing at Michael, who looks like he's three seconds away from strangling me. "Pardon?" I manage, my voice higher than normal.

"I was _in bed_," he growls. His hair's all over the place, just like mine. Probably from his motorcycle. Inexplicably, that makes me feel a little better. "I just got off of work, and you have Max drag my ass all the way over here for _this_?"

"But…"

He stalks back toward my window. "Go to Philadelphia, you goddamn nutcase. The world's not going to end because you took a break from this shit."

Someone once told me that the world was going to end because of who I was _dating_. There's no way for him to know if my leaving Roswell will bring about another End of Days. Or whatever other alien apocalypse the universe has waiting for us. "But what if—?"

"And bring me back a fucking souvenir, you crazy fucking—" he slams the window and I can't hear what else he's grumbling at me.

Michael, ever the smooth talker, has given me blinding hope without meaning to. I hadn't realized how desperately the idea of leaving Roswell appealed to me. Conflicted, I look to the others and they're shaking their heads. Kyle slouches tiredly toward the window as well with Max not far behind, and neither of them will say a word to me, though the stupefied worry on Max's face is somewhat comical. As they leave, Maria and Isabel are about to follow the boys when, notably exasperated, Maria turns to me.

"I'm grumpy and sleepy and like, really, _really _annoyed with you, but if you want some help packing, I'll totally help."

I check the clock on my wall. It reads one in the morning.

Whoops.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, hoping they can hear my sincerity. "I… I thought you should have a say in this, since this affects—"

"Shut up," Isabel interrupts, moody. She's gorgeous, even disheveled, and I momentarily envy her effortless beauty. "It's _your_ trip, _your _decision, and the only one it affects is _you_." She rubs her eyes. "And I'll help you pack, too."

"Okay." I try to quell the surge of emotion bubbling in my chest. "Thank you." _So, so much._

Maria's already tossing clothes out of my dresser. Isabel glides over to join her. "The next time you lose your mind, please don't wake me up. I will give you nightmares for a year."

I doubt the nightmares she speaks of can rival the hellmouth of dead things I see when I close my eyes, but I understand the sentiment quite plainly.

x

x

I should have stayed in Roswell.

After the confusion that is baggage claim, my mother and I step out into an east coast morning. The skies are overcast gray, swirling with the malcontent I can feel brewing in my stomach. I'm so off-kilter that I almost keel over the second my sneakers touch concrete.

It stinks.

It's freezing.

It's so damnably _loud_.

My mother leads me to one of many awaiting taxis and the driver is nice enough to help us with our luggage. We slide into the cab and the smell is even worse in here; sweat and filth and old rubber. I bury my nose in the collar of my thin jacket to escape the offending odor; this putrid, rancid stench will infect me, crawling beneath my skin where I cannot scrub it out. I don't know how mom can stand it, but she leans forward in her seat and says, "Fifteenth and Chestnut," while rubbing her hands together. The look she tosses me is full of mirth. "Nothing like Roswell, huh?"

I nod, too cold to answer without my teeth chattering. We've haven't even left the airport yet and I want to go home.

"Give it a day or two," she says. "You get used to it. Trust me, you won't notice the smell after a while."

I highly doubt that.

The driver watches us through the rearview mirror and turns on the radio. His skin is smooth cocoa with eyes that reflect the dreary clouds overhead, and his dreadlocks are strangely comforting. When he speaks, his accent gives me pause. It sounds so familiar, but I can't place it. "This her first time in Philly?"

"Yeah, poor thing," my mother answers.

A few opening chords from the radio drifts into the backseat. The driver pulls out of the parking spot. "You ladies here for the sights?"

_Raindrops keep fallin' on my head_…

"My sister just had a baby and Lizzie hasn't seen her aunt in years."

_And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed…_

She turns to me. "But I don't see why we can't play tourists while we're here. I can't remember the last time I saw the Liberty Bell."

I have no such inclination, but I don't have the heart to tell her so. I watch a plane take off as the airport slowly disappears behind us, silent.

The ride is long and uncomfortable, but the conversation never falters around me. The driver—Terrell—and my mother go back and forth, talking about things to see and do in this monster of a city. My mom refreshes her memory of her hometown while I listen on, wondering how Nancy Parker, small town mom and wife, could have gone from this screaming metropolis to quiet little Roswell.

The scenery changes from gated fields to dense woods to connected houses three stories tall. Greens and browns and all the shades of gray, zipping past the dirty, tinted window without rhyme or reason. The colors here are muted, cold and distant; what little warmth to be found shines brightly like the sun peeking through the clouds, before the murky blues and blacks swallow them whole. Our destination is one such example of ephemeral beauty, congested as it is between buildings too tall to see completely without falling backwards. Fifteenth and Chestnut turns out to be right in the middle of this twisted concrete wonderland.

I step out of the cab and frown at the _Art Institute of Philadelphia _sign that greets me, big red letters interwoven with cream. It seems so out of place. "Aunt Margie lives above a school?"

My mother pulls out her cellphone. "No, she lives across the street. See that building right there? She lives on one of those floors." I have no idea which building she's referring to. "Let me double check which apartment she's in."

An apartment? With a new baby, I expected a house. Michael lives in an apartment, and there's barely enough space for him; he's so large that every room seems a few feet too short to accommodate him. At least, that is what Maria's tells me. I've never been to his apartment, so even if I apply the Maria filter, I have no idea how true her words are. But I live above a tacky little restaurant that caters to alien enthusiasts all over the country, and I've never been pressed for space. I have no room to judge, no _right _to judge, and my negativity isn't going to help me.

_I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'…_

Terrell helps us unload, carrying the majority of our bags past the pleasant doorman. The lobby is small and cozy, with a receptionist sitting behind a high counter and a security guard posted by the elevators. Terrell tips his hat at the guard and wishes us a good stay, but I stop him before he gets too far.

I might as well make the most of my trip.

"Making memories?" my mom asks as we step into the elevator.

I tuck away my camera. "Mm-hm." I watch her push the button for the seventh floor. "I liked his accent."

"New Yorker," my mother informs me. "It's not very pronounced, but I'm pretty sure he's from NYC."

That explains why it seemed so familiar to me. "How far are we from New York?"

"Few hours. Why?"

I shake off the memory of pink hair. "No reason."

I don't remember much about Aunt Margie, other than her green eyes and her blond Viking of a husband. In my mind, all I can recall is my mother with darker hair, and when the door to apartment G-23 swings open, that's exactly what I see. She starts talking with a rapid fire ease that speaks of Maria, like she's overflowing with so much excitement that she can't contain the words. She's tired and disheveled with a bundle of blankets in her arms, but there's a glow to her, a radiance I've never witnessed in another person, and I wonder if my mother had that glow when I was born.

Warren is Aunt Margie's husband and my uncle by marriage, and he's every inch the blond Viking I remember. He, too, holds a bundle of blankets, all smiles and tired blue eyes. Together, he and my aunt are the happiest, most haggard parents in the world.

My mother is beside herself as she takes a bundle—a _baby—_from her sister. "_Twins?_ You didn't tell me you were having twins!"

"I wanted it to be a surprise," says my aunt. "So… surprise."

"Very funny," my mother deadpans, clearly not amused. "Now, introduce me to my nieces."

Aunt Margie obliges, running a hand over her daughter's head. "This is Georgiana." She takes the other baby from Warren's arms and looks to me, green eyes sparkling. "And this is Briana. Wanna hold her, Lizzie?"

I don't have a choice when the little girl is thrust into my arms. I drop my duffle and instinctively cradle her, mimicking my mother. My nerves flare, unsure and uncomfortable. I have no experience with children, let alone babies, and I'm overcome with the fear of dropping her. She fusses a little, her tiny fists flailing about as if she senses my inadequacy, but when I carefully adjust her, she instantly calms. There's a swirl of peach colored hair on her head, soft and springy to the touch; her eyes are dark when she opens them and I can't help staring, drinking in every detail of the tiny person I hold. Briana lets out a garbled chirp, her chubby face lighting up in carefree joy, and I find myself lighting up with her.

My heart thuds painfully.

"Babe, can you take their bags to their room?"

Mindful of my cousin, I protest. "Oh, no, I can get those."

Warren already has half of our luggage in his grip. "No worries. I got this. You ladies catch up for a while; I'll get these tucked away before I get lunch ready."

"Thanks, babe." She gives Warren a quick peck before he shuffles out of sight. When her attention returns to us, mom is cooing nonsense at Georgiana and I'm fighting back tears I can't explain. "You're going to love his Paninis. Warren owns this little café on Thirteenth and Walnut, right next to Capogiro, and his food is to _die_ for."

Huh. Two Irish sisters on different sides of the country, and they both marry into the food business. Coincidence?

Briana chirps again and I smile.

I don't believe in coincidences.

x

x

That night, after my mother and I have settled in, I tiptoe to Briana's crib.

I don't know why I feel so connected to this wide-eyed baby. The twins are identical, but their temperaments are nothing alike; Georgiana is irritable and fussy whereas Briana is a joy, all toothless grins and cheerful noises. She's so little and pudgy, with rosy cheeks and big eyes I can drown in. I can't figure out how someone I've just met can hypnotize me, can lure me in with just a look. I've spent the whole day with her, watching her, playing with her; my aunt remarked on how strange it is for her to stay so calm, as she's usually crankier than her sister. Aunt Margie surmised I must be a natural with children.

That, of course, sparked an entire conversation about my love life which I never want to think about again.

But this baby has some kind of hold over me. She's innocent and sweet, and on another sleepless night, I find myself drawn to her even more.

She must feel my presence because Briana wakes up. I panic—it took forever to get the twins to bed—but she doesn't scream or cry. She fusses with her blanket for a bit, bringing the edge of it to her mouth with a happy gurgle.

I'm beginning to understand why Max let Tess go.

x

x

It's two days into our visit and I am restless. I want to explore, to learn, to see; this wanderlust is strong and I want to lose myself in the history of this new place.

My mother is, understandably, not very happy with the idea of her only child getting lost in an unfamiliar city. I can't very well tell her of my adventures to prove myself capable—I don't think she'd ever let me out of the house, if she knew—but I promise to check up with her every hour, on the hour. I'm seventeen, not seven, and whether or not she wants to admit it, I'm more of an adult than she gives me credit for. So, armed with my camera, some spending money, a map, and my mother's cellphone, I step out into the screeching labyrinth.

I'm ready.

With the sunlight gleaming between cracks in the skyline, I stroll through the crowds without any real direction. It's bizarre and frightening, but allowing the world to lead me is freeing in its own way; the part of me that needs a plan, that desires control, is going insane and demands that I open my map. That part of me doesn't like the idea of getting lost and is worried about everything that could go wrong. What if I get mugged? What if I'm kidnapped? What if I lose my phone? What if there's some catastrophe going on in Roswell and I'm too busy bleeding in some back alley to help?

Anotherpart of me wants to run along the sidewalk with her arms outstretched, reveling in the early afternoon smog.

I sigh, exasperated with myself. This isn't going to get me anywhere.

I need to compromise.

I walk for a good hour or so, aimless, barely remembering to call my mother. After a brief confirmation that, yes, I'm still alive, I hang up with her quickly; the array of shops is staggering and I get distracted very easily perusing them.

My thoughts turn toward my friends. Maria would adore the store full of astrology books and candles. Kyle would go nuts over the car show being promoted on the billboards. There's a music store that would have fulfilled Alex's every fantasy. Isabel would have _loved _Macy's—_I_ love Macy's. The shoes and clothes are impressive, but the displays are works of art; life sized elephant statues, elaborate gardens, fountains made of painted clay. I spend the next two checkups with my mother in that gigantic store before I force myself to leave, wary of the price tags and the security guards following me with their eyes.

When my mother finds out that I'm on Walnut Street, she tells me I should swing by Warren's café for lunch. I agree, slightly annoyed that I've hardly gotten a mile away from Aunt Margie's apartment in three hours' time.

I'm not a very good explorer.

Warren's place is small, less than a quarter of the Crash Down's size, but it's packed with people. When he spots me, he introduces me to his harassed looking staff and lets me try the newest item on the menu, free of charge_. Calamari fritti_, he calls it in a feigned Italian accent, and I love it. He makes me try the _rigatoni all'amatriciana_ next, then the _ziti al forno _and a snobby spaghetti dish that my stomach tries to instantly regurgitate. I plead for clemency and he grants it, wrapping up a Panini—his specialty—for me to take on my journey.

Before I go, I snap a picture of him behind the counter, dressed in his goofy work hat and a black apron. He obliges, and then takes one of me. He lets me keep that silly hat.

That guy's such a sweetheart.

In a way, he reminds me of Michael whenever the hulking alien cuts the stonewall act, revealing the remarkable man he's growing into. Observant and playful and unfailingly loyal. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course; he's softened, opened up more, but he's light years away from heart-to-hearts. I think flicking my butt with a dirty rag is the closest he'll ever get to admitting he doesn't hate me, and that's only because he enjoys the baffling noises I tend to make when assaulted thusly. Stupid Kyle and his bad influence. Fortunately, understanding him is Maria's job, not mine.

My belly full and my spirits restored, I wander for a little while longer. I grow immune to the trash in the streets and the hotdog carts, but I'm determined to see at least one landmark today. I brave a bus ride after asking a woman in an orange pullover for directions; it's cramped and filthy and foul, and the other passengers openly stare.

Unfortunately, the Liberty Bell is underwhelming, as is its souvenir shop and the cheap replicas that cost entirely too much. I take plenty of pictures and consult my map, trying to ignore Michael's voice in my head.

"_And bring me back a fucking souvenir."_

I smirk and start walking; I'm sure I can find better things to bring my friends other than overpriced miniature bells.

Evening approaches and I have no idea where I am, and there are rainbow plaques under the street signs. My legs are starting to tire and my mother is already asking what time I plan on returning, but there's a bunch of things I've yet to see; I still have to check out the Declaration of Independence. The museum's probably closed, at any rate, and there's one place I haveto go that doesn't have a closing time. I look through my map to double check, and hop on another bus.

The Rocky Steps have no historical value other than the fact that they're actually the steps to an art museum, but my friends will flip when they find out I'm here. I run up the stairs with more exuberance than the situation calls for, and fill up a whole roll of film on the Rocky statue, and start another roll once I make it to the top. It takes me longer than I'd like to catch my breath, so I sit and unwrap my Panini, munching as the sun goes down. Gradually, a knot unclenches in my stomach, one I didn't know was there. I'm unwinding, unfurling, _blossoming_, and I can feel it in my bones as the city flickers like tea lights at sea.

I'm alone and the fire in the sky is dying, but I feel lighter than I have in a very long time.

"Didn't expect to see _you _on the east coast."

I drop my sandwich.

I _know_ that voice.

She smiles, her long hair—blue, now—billowing in the chilly breeze. The clone of my worst enemy looks like anything but, scratching the back of her neck anxiously. "How's it goin', cornball?"

"_Ava?"_

Coincidence? I wonder.

I'm rushing to her before I can think twice, wrapping my arms around Ava as I would any of my family.

Mom was right. This place isn't so bad, after all.

x

x

I don't know how long Ava and I sit talking, swapping stories on the Rocky Steps, but the stars are out when my mother calls. Dread sits heavily in my stomach. In all of the excitement, I completely forgot about the whole checking in thing, and my merriment fades.

I pick up, hesitant. "Hey, mom."

"Don't you 'hey' me, missy. You haven't called me in _two _hours."

I wince. "Sorry, mom. I met up with an old friend and kind of… lost track of time."

She doesn't believe me. "You have a friend in Philly?" she asks.

"Yeah, Ava. Tess' cousin?" The tendril of hatred that creeps into my voice is accidental.

"That Harding girl? What's she doing here?"

"No, mom." I cover my eyes with my hand, "_Ava_ is with me, not Tess. No one knows where Tess went, remember?" I do, but like hell am I going to tell her.

My mom sounds just as exasperated as I am. "Just tell me where you are. Warren will pick you up."

"Uh…" I glance at Ava, stalling. I'm not ready to leave. "But mom, I haven't seen her in a long time. Can I—?"

"_No_."

"I didn't ask anything, yet."

"The answer's still no."

"You're being unreasonable," I huff, annoyed.

"I'm your mother. I'm allowed to be as unreasonable as I please and it's not your place to tell me otherwise. Now, tell me where you are."

Anger rages through me, fueled by indignation. I'm not a child, and though I've had to do a few unscrupulous things in the past, they were all for the greater good. Children do not sacrifice everything for love, and then sacrifice that love to save the world, only to have said world fall apart. I've made my mistakes, I've suffered the consequences, and if I want to chat with a friend, then I will.

"Elizabeth Parker," my mom warns when I do not answer.

"_No_," I say through gritted teeth. "I'm not ready yet."

"You will tell me where you are, _right this instant_, or—"

"I'm not ready yet," I repeat.

"I don't care if you're ready, you will—"

I hang up on her.

She's going to be furious. I quickly tamper down the giddiness that wells up within me; I have no reason to feel victorious when I've completely lost control of myself. I've never been so blatantly disrespectful to my parents. She's going to call my dad and tell him what I've done, and then _he's _going to furious. I'm going to be grounded until I'm old enough to retire.

_Christ_. What have I done?

Ava whistles, impressed. "Damn, girl. Didn't think ya had the balls."

That makes two of us.

She stands, brushing off her skirt. "Since you bein' all rebellious and shit, wanna look 'round my new 'hood? I ain't really got a crib, but we got options."

I shove the phone in my pocket, ignoring it when it rings. "But everything's closed."

"Girl, _please_." She wiggles her finger, viridescent sparks writhing beneath her skin.

I hesitate, unsure.

I don't believe in coincidences and I'm pretty sure there's a reason Ava has stumbled onto me here, of all places. I still don't know what those reasons are, but I want to find out, and I'm never going to get anywhere worrying over every obstacle that comes my way. Even if that obstacle happens to be the extraordinary amount of trouble I'm in.

I trot after her. Might as well enjoy my freedom while it lasts.

x

x

Twenty-nine and a half hours later, I'm still not ready to deal with my mother. But, in hindsight, I think I may have overdone it.

On the plus side, I was able to see the Declaration of Independence. I got to see the Franklin Institute, the Edgar Allan Poe National Historic Site, and most of Penn's Landing. And then, there was dizzying, colorful South Street that leeched the soul from my wallet, and what I learn was the 'gayborhood'—those streets with the rainbow plaques beneath the signs. I watched a drag show in an afterhours club and danced to hard, pumping music as if I were exorcising demons.

I was groped by a girl, tried fourteen different cocktails, _made out _with a girl, flirted outrageously with a bouncer, and staggered down to City Hall, screaming about the injustices of the world and the flaws in the system.

All with Ava by my side.

On a lark, I got my tongue pierced. No idea why. And there's a navel ring I don't remember agreeing on. And another tattoo, which I can somewhat rationalize. I don't quite remember why I was insistent upon the tiny trail of stars behind my right ear, but I vaguely recall a moment of lunacy in which I declared myself immortal. 'One with the stars', even.

I must have been channeling Maria.

Thankfully, Ava cheated the healing process for me, so I don't have to deal with the irritating side-effects of my recklessness. But I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret this, especially since I broke my promise to my father. I screwed up. Big time. It was great and tons of fun, but I still screwed up.

They must be beyond furious.

They must be worried sick.

I think _I'm_ going to be sick. I'm tired, hung-over, and nervous. I have no idea how I'm going to get through this. I'm nearly out of film, too.

"Chill," Ava soothes, watching me as I hesitate in front of my aunt's apartment. I've been delaying this confrontation all morning, going so far as to converse with the friendly doorman, Ricky, till Ava got bored and forced me into the elevator. When I don't move, she opens the door and marches in.

I dive in after her. "Wait! I'm not rea—"

"Back so soon?"

I freeze, a deer in the headlights of my mother's gaze. I wait for the explosion.

"Oh, hi, dear. You must be Ava." Mom shakes her hand. "I've heard so much about you."

"You too, Mrs. Parker."

Am I missing something?

My mom clicks her teeth at me. "Did you forget to get the eggs, again?" She shoos me out the door. "Go, quickly. Warren wants to make an omelet and he _needs_ those eggs, Lizzie." Before she closes the door, she calls to Ava, "You're staying for breakfast. No objections."

Breakfast?

Ava smiles winningly. "Nah, I ain't sayin' no to free food. Thanks Mrs. Parker."

"Please, call me Nancy."

What? I don't even… _what?_

Ava guides my stiff body to the elevator. Once the doors close, I turn on her. "You… _you_…"

She chuckles. "Yeah, I'm the man. Don'tchu forget that shit."

It takes more time than I like for it to click, but I manage to make sense of it. Alien juju. The mark of alien juju is familiar to me and this has alien juju written all over it. Relief has me sagging against the wall, my forehead against the cool steel in an effort to keep me on my feet. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I could sleep for the next year. Exhausted, I ask, "It's not going to hurt her, right? It's not going to mess with her head or anything?"

"Nah, nah. It ain't like… what Tess did…" she trails off, uncomfortable.

I've told her the ugly tale behind her duplicate's departure, and I think she's still walking on eggshells around me. I don't want her to think I blame her, because I don't, but I need to know if her mind tricks are going to hurt anyone else I care about. I don't care if I get in trouble; my mother's life is much more important than this.

"Bitch didn't know what the fuck she was doin'," Ava explains. "You gotta be careful with people's heads, y'know? Can't be dumb about that shit."

Another problem presents itself. "What about my dad?"

"I gotchu."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"No sweat. I _gotchu_."

I don't like that answer. "Ava—"

"Just trust me, a'ight?"

Inexplicably, I do. My instincts tell me I'm safe with her, that I can believe her. Shaking, I slump down, little more than a puddle of flesh and indecision. She pulls me up, wary of me passing out on the floor, and we slowly walk out of the front lobby. I nod at Ricky as we pass by—he must think I'm a basket case—before Ava speaks up again.

"And for what it's worth," she continues, "I got yo' back, too."

x

x

We're lounging on Ava's favorite rooftop, which happens to be the on tallest building in the city. Given the way she treats Philly like her personal jungle gym, I'm not surprised that this is her safe haven. Up here, nothing can touch me, not even the specters that haunt me.

I'm invincible.

"I still can't get over it," I murmur, lost in my reverie.

"What?"

"That you found me here. In a place I've never been to." I look at her and grin. "I wasn't sure about coming, but I'm glad I did."

Ava looks away. "Ain't nothin' a coincidence."

I ignore the double negative. The sun is setting and I'll have to head back to the apartment soon, but after watching the twins all day while my mother and her sister paint the town red, I think I deserve some rest. I lean back a little, my feet dangling over the edge.

"I know," I say. "I don't believe in coincidences."

x

x

The night before we leave, I buy a new journal.

_My name is Liz Parker and while nothing is the same and everything still hurts, it's getting better._

x

x

"I don't remember having this many bags," I complain.

"That's 'cause yo' happy ass bought half of South Street," is Ava's educated guess. She was nice enough to help me pack for the flight back home, but she's not any happier about the amount of luggage than I am. "_Shit_." She pauses at the elevator, huffing. "The fuck, Liz. You bringin' Philly _with_ you?"

I scratch at my wrist. "It's just a purse. And some clothes." Which is true. "And a few souvenirs." Which is a gross understatement.

She glares at me. I angle the brim of my hat lower.

Reluctance drags my feet. I don't want to leave, but I can't stay. I can't ask Ava to uproot her life for me; she's told me of her travels, and of how Philly felt like the right place to settle down for a while. Home, she'd explained, is a feeling for her, not a place. It's a peaceful humming in her chest that tells her she's right where she belongs. For someone who's grown up homeless, that must mean more than anything else in the world. Who am I to try and take that from her? That wouldn't be fair, regardless of how badly I want to bring her with me.

Warren comes through the apartment door after us, three duffles in his grip. "You forgot about a third of Market Street, Lizzie," he teases.

Ava and I groan in unison.

My uncle laughs. While we're distracted with bemoaning our lack of upper body strength, he takes the two bags from my hands, then pilfers the other two Ava's been dragging across the floor. "No worries, ladies. Mags didn't marry me for no reason." He shoulders some of the load and saunters casually into the elevator, completely at ease with carrying what has to be double his body weight.

I gape at him. "Are you sure? Those are_ really_ heavy." I packed those things myself.

He dismisses my worry. "This is nothing. You should've seen all of the crap your mom brought with her a few years ago." He rolls his eyes skyward. "She had me running up and down this building like a packhorse."

"I heard that," I hear from behind me, and I turn to catch my mother wiping her eyes.

Aunt Margie isn't in much better shape. I'm disappointed she didn't bring the sleeping twins with her to see us off; I'd already said my goodbyes, but I'm missing my cousins already. "I'm so sorry we can't take you to the airport ourselves. Warren has work and the babies—"

"Shut up, Marge," my mother says without malice. "I'll call you when we land."

"Good. And you." Aunt Margie pounces on me, squeezing with more strength than I thought her capable of. "You come and visit us again, you hear? You're welcome anytime. No excuses."

"Thanks." I clear my throat and try again. "I had a great time. Thanks for having me."

"Oh, shut up. You make it sound like you were a bother."

"Ladies," Warren interrupts. "I don't want to cut this short, but you're going to miss your flight."

"What time is it?" asks Ava.

My mother gasps. "Our flight leaves in an hour. _Shit_."

There's a flurry of rushed goodbyes with poor Ava caught in the crossfire, getting her fair share of watery farewells. We trip over each other trying to get into the elevator, and then trip poor Warren trying to get _out_ of the elevator. Ricky, the doorman, lends us a hand as we peel my uncle and our luggage off of the floor, pouring out into the lobby in a tidal wave of limbs gone horribly awry. Several frantic minutes are spent getting the tangle of us out of the building and into the waiting cab.

As my mother and Warren deal with the luggage, I turn to Ava, sadness tightening my throat. What on Earth am I supposed to say to her? I'm determined not to cry, but this may be harder than I'd imagined.

"The fuck you doin'?" Ava wants to know, tugging on my sleeve. "We gon' be late."

"I just want to say that—" Her words catch up to me. "Wait, _what_?"

Her smile is pure mischief. "What, didja think I was gonna let ya leave wit'out me?"

"I… _how_… you…"

She laughs.

I receive another surprise when I notice the driver who's helping my overtaxed uncle squish our suitcases in the trunk.

"Terrell!"

He tips his hat at me. "Hey there, Miss Parker. Enjoy your stay?"

I grin like a fool. "Sure did."

"Come on," my mother rushes. She's never done well under pressure. "I'll give you a hundred bucks if you can get us to the airport in less than twenty minutes."

Terrell's already behind the wheel. "Don't need to tell me twice."

x

x

"I call the window seat."

"Nope, _mine_."

We share a glance and, like children, take off. Ava races me down the aisle, squeezing by the other disgruntled passengers while I try to avoid them.

She lets me win.

"Girls," my mother chides, but I can tell she's amused. "Behave yourselves."

Ava and I grin in unison.

I'm still giddy, running on a high that only true happiness can bring. I look out of the oval window while Ava and my mother take care of putting away the carryon bags, imagining Terrell sitting in his cab, waiting for his next fare. Ricky, holding the door for droves of people who never notice him, smiling with infinite patience. Warren and Aunt Margie, each holding one of the twins, bright and cheerful and full of life; Georgiana, scowling, whereas Briana likes to giggle.

There are billions of people on this Earth, each one with their own story, their own life. Different faces, different backgrounds, different opinions, different dreams.

We're all on a journey, but there were roads that led us to where we are now.

How many of those people have touched another's life, just for an instant, and never thought about the impact of their presence? How many times has a person walked by someone who could have been their perfect counterpart? How many of those people will I meet? How many of them will I remember?

When the plane takes off, I whisper, "Bye, bye, Philly," and wonder if Philly will remember me.

x

x

I'm unclipping my seatbelt as soon as we land. My mother tells me to go on ahead to baggage claim and I jump at the chance to stretch my legs.

Isabel and Michael are waiting for me when I step off of the plane. I drink in the sight of them; they're both tall and statuesque, both intimidating in their devastating beauty. Isabel is very chic in her ruffled skirt and heels, her hair loosely curled. Michael is no less effortlessly handsome, dressed casually in jeans that have seen better days, a massive specimen of a man. But they're arguing with each other, if their thunderous expressions are anything to go by, and Isabel has something large under her arms. Michael is standing beside a baggage cart, his arms crossed, supremely unhappy and as sullen as I remember him.

They are the last two people I expect and I'm ecstatic to see them.

"Hey," I call over the ever present hum of airport noise.

Michael is the first one to notice me. He stands up straighter to look past Isabel and stills the moment our eyes catch. Isabel follows his line of sight and the smile dies on her lips before it can fully bloom.

A sliver of dread chills my joy; I'd expected this kind of reception to Ava. But I check, and she and my mother are still onboard.

They're staring at _me _that way.

Self-conscious, I adjust my hat and carryon. "Hey, guys," I greet with cheer. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. Did my dad send you?"

Isabel snaps out of her daze. "Yeah, sorry. Mister Parker asked Michael to grab you guys. I tagged along because…" she trails off, unable to meet my eyes, before regrouping herself. "Well, I'm not working and I have nothing better to do. I mean, I've already switched my wardrobe—new season, you know—and I redecorated my room, but you can only do that about fifteen times—"

I give her a hug, squeezing all of my love into her. "I missed you, too."

"Good," she says, and I get a squeeze of my own. Eyes twinkling, she unfolds the giant banner I'd spied under her arm earlier. "I made you a sign."

_Welcome Home, Liz_, it says with ribbons and glitter, the script undeniably Isabel. She's my very own welcoming committee, dazzling as she is. I ask her if I can keep it and she tells me that she'll want to laminate it first, but that she'd love for me to have it. I'm going to hang it up on my wall when I get home, right above my bed, like a sparkling dream catcher.

There's a snort beside us. "Hate to cut this short, ladies," is Michael's oh-so-subtle segue. "But your dad paid me seventy-five bucks to get 'his girls' and I don't have all—what the—"

I'm hugging him before he can finish his spiel. He's too damnably big to fit my arms around, too hard to for me to squeeze, but the smell of laundry detergent and warm Roswell mornings is exactly what I'm looking for. It's been ages—a whole week—since I've seen them, ages since this feeling in my chest has sprouted wings. Michael is my home, just as sure as Isabel and Maria and Kyle and Max are my home. I know he's not into public displays of affection—any affection, really—but he has another thing coming if he thinks he's going to get out of my embrace so easily.

He's surprisingly gentle when he disentangles us, and I see him scratching at his eyebrow, carefully looking at anything that isn't Liz Parker. His eyes cut through the crowd belching from the plane. "Where's your mom?"

I hide a smile. Michael will always be Michael. "She's still onboard, probably fighting with one of the ba—"

"What the hell is _she_ doing here?"

I don't need to turn around. I know exactly what's caught his attention.

I bite back the urge to shrink away from Michael's darkening face. "Look, I found her—well, she found _me_—in Philly."

"She _found _you?"

"When you put it _that_ way…"

"Parker," he warns, and I flinch.

I'm not afraid of Michael. Maybe once, before he stole my journal and let down his guard just the tiniest bit, he terrified me. The anomaly among the anomalies. But this Michael, who's fiercely protective of his family, doesn't scare me. This Michael, who somehow knows exactly how I like my milkshakes, who tricked me into talking to my friends again, who works two jobs and maintains schoolwork right along with Maria's whimsies, will not, and will never hurt me. Still, I don't like when people are angry or upset. I don't like confrontation. I don't like causing tension.

I place my hand on Michael's arm, willing him to look at me. I have to tread carefully; he'll explode all over the airport with mistrust and never talk to me again if I don't handle this correctly.

"She's helped me out a few times," I murmur. I'm not above humbling myself; I'm quietly pleading with him, hoping he'll understand even if he doesn't like it. "She means us no harm, I promise." I tug on his sleeve. "I take full responsibility for the end of the world if I'm wrong."

I tug again and I'm rewarded. His eyes are a whirlwind of browns and golds, turbulent and torn. "Liz," he starts, and I can feel the argument brewing.

"_Please?_"

I watch him falter.

"How can we trust her?" Isabel wants to know.

I turn to her, clutching Michael's sleeve a little tighter. I don't know how to answer that and I'm still floundering for some tangible proof when a frisson of awareness brushes across my senses. Ava, but not my mother, yet. Which reminds me, I have to go to baggage claim. Mom's going to wonder why we're just standing here, all tense with a brooding alien I very nearly have succumbing to my pleas.

"'Sup, Lonnie, Rath." Ava, very purposefully provoking them.

I cringe. _Way to go_.

Silence all around with none of them moving, slinging invisible projectiles of distrust and discomfort with the force of their glaring. This standoff makes me want to scream and I nearly do so, yanking on Michael's shirt in the process. He doesn't pay attention to me, too busy being intimidating, and I can't take it.

Is it so wrong to want them all to get along? There's a hole in my heart the size of Alex's wooden coffin and I'm trying so hard to fill it, to fix it. I'm an open wound and when I start shaking, falling apart under the weight of my longing, it dawns on me that I may not get my wish, no matter how much I try. I can't change other people, I can't go back to change time—again—and I can't force them to give in to my will. My eyes burn, my stomach churns, and the need to _runrunrun_ has me darting away from them.

I toss my duffle onto the baggage cart and jump on. One foot pushes off of the floor and I'm sailing away from my grumpy friends, free.

"_Liz!_" someone shrieks behind me, but I don't care.

I'll let them figure it out on their own.

The stampede of stubborn aliens grows louder and I push off the floor a few more times, skateboarding on my getaway cart with abandon. I'm a bird, I'm a plane, I'm a flying Liz Parker pretending she's five years old again to escape a breakdown because I can't have my way. "_Beep beep_," I shout as a warning. Even in my adventuresome whimsy, I'm careful to avoid the few people milling about that do not immediately jump out of the way; the last thing I need is a 'hit and run' on my record.

Michael and his big hands kill my fun. He grabs the cart's handle and lifts me up as if I'm made of dust, swinging me off of my makeshift spaceship. I'm weightless for one perfect moment, suspended, and I want to gurgle with rapture, just like Briana does when I tickle her.

He puts me down and I pout.

"_What the fuck_, Parker?" he bellows at me. He's not Max or Kyle or Alex, and my pouting has absolutely no effect on him.

"You guys were just," I refrain from whining. "Just… _ignoring_ me, so I'm going to baggage claim. Which will take forever now, thanks."

"And becoming a human bowling ball helps _how_?" There's a touch of incredulity in his voice.

I hadn't thought of it like that. But now that he mentions it, I suppose that's an apt description. Honestly, I'm surprised security hasn't tried to arrest me. I wasn't trying to mow down human pins, though; I wanted to get away from them, just for a little while. "It was quicker than waiting for you," I defend weakly, crossing my arms.

Isabel and Ava are skidding to a halt behind Michael before he can yell at me some more.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Isabel demands. "You scared me half to death." She's panting, blonde hair tousled and shimmering. "Don't you _ever_ do anything like that again. Seriously, _ever_."

The very real fear wrinkling her brow stops me from snapping at her. She's not my mother or my boss, but I didn't mean to worry her.

"You twisted as fuck, homie. Seriously twisted," Ava agrees. She huffs and moves toward the abandoned cart. "C'mon, let's get outta here before ya start dancin' from the ceiling. Fuckin' lunatic."

Isabel wraps an arm around me, ushering us down the hall. Michael takes the reins from Ava and storms on ahead of us, the strong lines of his back oozing with displeasure. He's not going to let me hear the end of this, I know, but _he's_ the one that turned into a puffed up rooster and frustrated me to no end. As far as I'm concerned, he can be as cranky as he wants to be, because they're not fighting anymore.

Victory feels wonderful.

x

x

"Did you bring Philadelphia _with _you?"

"Everythin' but the hobos," Ava answers in my stead. "Them bags are mad packed with bullshit, yo."

"_Jesus_, Parker."

It's weird how much he and Ava are alike.

The five of us are making our way up the stairs that lead to my home. I can hear the loud patrons of the diner filtering in through the kitchen and I can tell the lunch rush is in full swing. Poor Maria will be dancing between tables right now, a plastic smile pasted on her lips to hide the gnashing of her teeth. As I listen with half an ear, the bell—Michael's beloved bell—rings, and the quick chime is wholly José; Michael's rings are firm and impatient, echoing loudly with his annoyance. Agnes is the other waitress on the schedule, I'm sure. Maria will have a litany of complaints the next time I see her.

"Can somebody open the door? My hands are kind of full."

I push away the urge to surprise Maria and jog up the last few steps. "Oh, yeah, sorry. Let me get that for you."

My mother is the slowest of us, her stamina significantly lower. She's jetlagged and a little paler than usual, but that's nothing some rest won't fix. "Thank you so much, Michael," she says, gripping the banister. "It would have taken us all day to bring these upstairs."

"No problem, Mrs. Parker," says Michael, even as he hauls our luggage through the door. He's always so polite and amiable to my parents. It's a shame he doesn't extend that courtesy to _me_.

"Can I make you something to eat?" my mother asks once we're all in the living room. She eyes the kitchen, weary and worn from our flight. She's offering out of gratitude, I think, but I doubt she has the energy to whip something up on such short notice. "I was thinking of making this dish Warren made. You know, that spaghetti he cooked up on Wednesday. Remember, honey?"

I do and I quickly mask my horror. I love my mother and her baked goods are somewhat of a novelty in this town, rivaled only by Amy DeLuca's pies, but cooking is an entirely different story. Even if that spaghetti dish wasn't the bane of my existence, she is nothing short of a disaster in the kitchen. "_Please _don't, mom."

"I can cook something," Isabel chimes in brightly. "I saw this recipe on the Food Network—"

"_Again?_ You've got to stop watching that crap, Is."

"Shut up, Michael. Anyway, it's fast and easy and I'd love to try it, if you don't mind."

My mother protests. "I couldn't ask you to—"

I catch Michael about to throw down some of the suitcases and I panic. "_Careful with that one!_"

Isabel ignores my outburst. "You're not asking, I'm offering. Please?"

My mother is no match for Isabel's hopeful insistence. "Well, if you're sure, I wouldn't mind freshening up a bit before dinner. The time difference takes some getting used to."

Michael watches me gingerly lower a bag to the floor. It's the one I packed full of souvenirs, gifts for my return, but there's no way for him to know that. "Keep your panties on, Parker. I didn't break anything."

"Good, because you wouldn't have gotten your present if you had."

He brightens with pleasant surprise. It's the smallest hint of a smile, a subtle twitch of his lips. Did he think I'd forget his demands? "Oh yeah? What did you get me?"

"You'll find out later, if you stay for dinner."

The smirk he gives me is playful. I think I'm forgiven for my airport shenanigans. "Deal."

Isabel is beaming. I don't remember what she and my mother are talking about because I'm too shocked that my ultimatum worked. Michael hates ultimatums and I'd prepared myself for an angry refusal; I focus on Isabel, trying not to let my triumph show. Michael raises an eyebrow at me and I know I've failed.

"Great! Where's your apron, Mrs. Parker?"

"Hallway closet, dear. And, please, it's Nancy." My mom pauses. "Will you be okay settling yourselves in, Lizzie?"

I shoo her away. "Yeah, Ava can bunk with me. Go, take a shower. Sleep for a while."

"You too, Liz," Isabel says. "Michael, you're going to help me in the kitchen. Liz, you and Ava go and clean up."

I start to protest. "But—"

"No buts."

"But—"

"Drop it, Parker," Michael sighs. "You're not going to win against General Crocker."

General Crocker?

Isabel smiles, but it's far from innocent. "Grab the frilliest apron and start chopping, Michael. Tuscan big pig takes hours to cook and we're already behind schedule."

"Tusc—_what? _Hours? I thought you said it was 'fast and easy'." He gapes. "And where the hell are you going to get a pig from?"

"Don't be such a baby. We need enough food for everybody, and I want to make sure it's done by the time Maria and Mister Parker clock out. Liz, do you guys have—never mind, I'll check for myself. Oh!" Isabel darts for the house phone. "I'd better let my parents know. And Kyle, too. Michael, can you run across the street and tell Max? I forgot when his shift ends."

"Wha…? Make up your mind, woman. Do you want me to help you cook, or get your brother?"

"Just do it." Isabel glares at Michael, then at Ava and me standing uselessly in the living room. "I thought I told you two to get cleaned."

We don't need to be told twice. Ava and I scurry away to the safety of my room, dragging as many bags as we can manage.

x

x

I'm heading out the door to the One Hour Photo, eager to get my pictures developed, when I find the perfect reason to use up the last of my film.

Big, burly Michael is wearing the pink apron my mom customarily wears, hunched over the chopping board. With his hair tamed in a bandana, he is the picture of domestic surliness, and I cackle uncontrollably.

Even his glare is pitiful. "Not. A. _Word_, Parker."

I'm going to need more than one photo album to hold all of these precious memories.


End file.
